For All Our Sakes
by cjnwriter
Summary: There are certain things in Sherlock Holmes's past that he doesn't wish to discuss, but when the man responsible returns to Holmes's life with a vengeance, the Great Detective and his Boswell have no choice but to fight back, for everyone's sakes. Rated T (right on the edge of being K plus) for frightening/intense scenes, and emotionally heavy content. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Scroll past the ramble-y author's note if you don't want to read it. I won't judge you...more harshly than you deserve. ;)**

**Hello, all!**

**Finally, after many hours of thinking, researching, editing, and beating my head against my desk, my novel-length fic is finally complete. Ta-da!**

**But before I can share it, I have to thank the fantastic people who made it possible:**

**-SheWhoScrawls, for being a valuable wealth of knowledge.  
-My good friend Cole, for being my biggest fan. I would never have finished it without your support.  
-My TAG teacher, Mrs. Kiburis, for being fantastic and understanding of my insanity.  
-And last but not least, my mom, for keeping Holmes in character and pointing out the tiniest inconsistencies that I completely missed. She should've been a detective, I tell you...**

**I can't make guarantees about how often I will post new chapters, but the whole thing is written, so there will be none of that waiting-for-years-for-the-next-chapter. Y'all are welcome.**

**Without further ado, here's the first chapter:**

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**Chapter One **

**_Watson_**

In the year 1895, Mr. Sherlock Holmes was consulted about many an outré and fascinating case, but no case from that particular year stands out in my mind so starkly as this one. It was one of the few times that my friend admitted that he was anything less than superhuman, and one of the fewer times that I had been given the privilege of having a glimpse into his deeply-buried soul and mysterious past. Not only was this case of a personal nature, it was unusual in the fact that the only clients were ourselves, and arguably Holmes's brother Mycroft and two Scotland Yard Inspectors.

I am amazed that my friend gave me permission to publish this case at all, and more astonished still that has he agreed to add his own account to the story, though the whole affair would hardly make sense without it.

The events of which I speak began on an average Wednesday morning in April. Holmes and I were steadily working our way through one of Mrs. Hudson's magnificent breakfasts and various morning papers.

"Anything of interest in _The Times_?" asked my friend from behind _The Pall Mall Gazette_.

"Well," I answered, "On Friday, there's to be a wedding between the Duchess of —"

"Watson!" he snapped, putting down his paper to glare at me.

I blinked innocently back at him. "My sincere apologies, old fellow. Did you mean of interest to _you_?"

Holmes snorted in a very undignified fashion as he snatched a pair of scissors from the table and began to cut a section out of the paper. "So was there?"

"What if I was going to read that paper?" I asked, completely ignoring his question.

"What would you have wanted to read?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't know," I answered, deliberately irritating him.

"Then how do you know that you wanted to read it?" he asked exasperatedly, though I could tell he really wasn't irritated at me. At least not very much.

"I never said I _knew_ I wanted to read it; I only asked what you would have done had I wanted to," I countered slyly, turning a page in my paper and scanning my eyes down the page for anything that would interest my friend. "Hmm. This message is a little odd," I said, pointing out a small section in the agony column and handing the paper to Holmes.

"That could be something, but it could just as easily be nothing," my friend replied thoughtfully. "It appears to be the first message sent; look at the wording at the start of the message. We shall have to wait and see what this mysterious "P" says in the next few days, or weeks. Or months, possibly."

We returned to our perusal of the newspapers, and a couple of minutes later, Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room, a telegram in hand. "It's for you, Mr. Holmes," she said, handing it to him. She glanced down at our progress on the breakfast front (and scowled when she saw Holmes's pipe lying on the table) before sweeping from the room.

As Holmes ran his eyes over the telegram, his thick brows knotted together, and he handed it to me. Looking down at it, I read:

COME TO MY ROOMS IMMEDIATELY SHERLOCK STOP IT IS A MATTER OF GREAT PERSONAL IMPORTANCE STOP MYCROFT STOP

"It must be something paramount if Mycroft wants you to meet him at his rooms," I said, handing the telegram back to my friend, who set it on the table next to our half-eaten breakfast.

"My brother does not alter his habits lightly," said Holmes. "Only something very significant could have thrown him out of his usual orbit." He started toward the door leading to the hall, but before he had taken two steps, he glanced back at me over his shoulder. "Aren't you coming, Watson?" he asked, and I am willing to swear that under his usual phlegmatic tone, he sounded a trifle disappointed.

"If it's all right with you," I replied, rising to my feet. I had erroneously assumed that my friend would not want me to come along if it was a personal matter, and so had remained seated at the table.

The detective's face brightened. "Yes, your presence could be most advantageous," he said as he tossed me my coat and headed toward the door. I spared my unfinished toast only a momentary wistful glance before hastily donning my coat and following my friend down the stairs.

When we reached Mycroft's rooms, the elder Holmes brother was pacing up and down the comfortable sitting room, his hands clasped behind his back, a cigar dangling from his mouth, his brow furrowed and the watery grey eyes beneath fixed on the ground before his feet. He looked slightly dishevelled, with his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows and his greying hair hanging down in front of his face. His pacing was disconcerting, to say the least, as I have always associated Mycroft with thoughtful lethargy rather than feverish action. I glanced at my friend, and was in an odd way reassured that I was not the only one completely taken aback by Mycroft's strange appearance and behaviour. We had only a few seconds to stare blankly before the subject of our bewilderment motioned us to the couch with a flabby hand as he seated himself in a chair opposite us.

"Good morning, Doctor," he said cordially, though I detected an undertone of anxiety in his voice that increased my uneasiness almost as much as his pacing had done.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," I replied.

"Do call me Mycroft, Doctor," Mycroft returned kindly, before facing his brother. "I know how you despise unnecessary pleasantries, dear brother, so I shall skip to the facts," he said. Mycroft spoke much more quickly than was usual for his slow and methodical personality. "There was an attempt to poison my food yesterday afternoon."

I half expected my friend to make some gibe about his brother's weight, but he remained —thankfully—silent.

"The man who endeavored to poison my luncheon was apprehended—I know you're going to ask for particulars, Sherlock," he added, holding up his hand when Holmes leaned forward and opened his mouth, "but it won't be necessary." I frowned and with my peripheral vision, I could see my friend doing the same. "I called you here, because the poisoner—Rowe was his name, I believe—told the police early this morning who had paid him to do it. Inspector Lestrade contacted me immediately, and I in turn sent fo—"

"Mycroft, get to the point!" Holmes snapped exasperatedly. "We did not leave our excellent breakfast only half eaten to listen to you ramble." I suspect he mentioned the breakfast more as an appeal to his brother's nature than disappointment about leaving the flat on a mostly empty stomach.

Mycroft sighed tolerantly, but at the same time he seemed to tense, as though preparing to say something he dreaded saying but knew he must be said. "Rowe claims to have been hired by Roderick Cauldwell." The name meant nothing to me, but my friend blanched.

"The same Cauldwell as—as before?" he asked, his normally strident tone hushed to a tense whisper.

"Most definitely," Mycroft replied gravely, pulling a large white handkerchief from his pocket and mopping his large brow with it.

"Have the police located him?" asked Holmes as he fidgeted with something in one of his coat pockets.

"No. He seemed to have been warned about the police, and gone into hiding before they arrived."

Holmes swore.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft reprimanded, but the detective ignored him and glowered at the fading carpet between his feet.

"If you don't mind my asking, who is this Mr. Cauldwell?" I asked cautiously. Neither of the Holmes brothers answered me for a moment, and an almost tangible silence filled the sitting room.

"He was involved in a brutal knifing case five years ago," said Holmes finally. "The main suspect, in fact, but there wasn't enough evidence against him."

I frowned, trying to remember. It would have been during my marriage and, as I had seen a good deal less of my friend in those days, it was more than likely that I was not involved in the affair he mentioned at all. "Have you ever told me about this case?" I asked uncertainly.

"No," was Holmes's monosyllabic and conversation-ending answer, and he turned back to his brother, leaving me feeling more than a little taken aback. While my friend had never been an overly amiable person, he had been far warmer (at least to me) after his Return, and even before then, it was very rare that he would cut me off without any explanation whatsoever. "Mycroft, is this everything you have to tell us?" Holmes asked.

"I have only one more thing," Mycroft answered, wiping his brow again. "Please leave this case to the official police, Sherlock. For all our sakes." His watery grey eyes were fixed concernedly upon his younger brother as he spoke. I glanced at Holmes, who was clenching both his fists and his jaw.

"Of course," he finally answered in a cold, lifeless voice.

Holmes was far more listless and unsociable in the cab on the way back to Baker Street than was usual for him. He alternated between biting his nails and drumming his fingers anywhere within his reach, and scowling at the drab world beyond the cab window. All were sure signs of nervousness and a very, very dark mood.

I was full of curiosity about this knifing case and Cauldwell person, but knew my friend well enough to see that this was most definitely not a good time to ask him any the unusually strained silence, excepting the drumming of the detective's fingers and usual sounds one hears on a damp spring morning in London.

When we reached 221b, Holmes immediately retreated to his bedroom with only his shag tobacco and violin for company. I did not see him again until dinnertime that evening, when he emerged looking unkempt and bearing clear signs of an unstable emotional state.

Naturally, I was both surprised and concerned about my sometimes automaton-like friend, who rarely showed any emotion whatsoever, save the rare bursts of anger toward particularly repulsive criminals, and the occasional sign of affection toward myself. To see my friend in such a state of upheaval was even more alarming than seeing Mycroft pacing restlessly. For Holmes's sake, as well as my own, I squelched my curiosity and silently vowed not to ask any questions related to the events of the morning. Such questions would get me nowhere with my friend, and most likely alienate me from him altogether, which was the last thing I wanted to do.

Dinner was a quiet affair, and my friend did no more than tentatively pick at his food. In all probability, the only reason he came out of his bedroom at all was to ease my mind about his state of health, both physical and emotional. While I found this slightly backhanded gesture touching, I was still very worried about him.

After about ten minutes of Holmes's teeth grinding, finger tapping, and lack of appetite, my patience finally ran out.

"Holmes, whatever it is that's bothering you, you can tell me," I said emphatically. "It doesn't take your deductive talent to tell that _something_ Mycroft told us has upset you greatly. And it isn't simply the fact that there was a failed attempt upon his life."

My words and tone of voice arrested his attention enough that he ceased his grinding and tapping, before throwing me a black look which might have caused a man with less backbone to crawl into a dark corner and hide, but friend's mood swings no longer alarmed me like they once had. "You don't have to tell me what it is—" here he snorted and made a very juvenile I'd-like-to-see-you-try face "—but I am always here if you want to."

As Holmes pushed back his chair and drew himself up to his formidable height, I could see that cursed aloof mask slide over his sharp features. "I am perfectly fine, Watson," he said coldly. "I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about, so do cease to concern yourself about me, there's a good fellow." He gave a strained and very obviously false smile before stalking the few steps from the table to his bedroom door, and locking it behind him. Sighing, I contemplated what I could possibly do for my unfortunate friend.

"Did he even touch his food, Doctor?" asked Mrs. Hudson in a half-worried, half-irritated tone when she came up from the kitchen with dessert (a very delicious-looking pudding, but the exchange with my friend had sapped my appetite) and saw that I was the only lodger at the table.

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Hudson," I replied as she set the pudding on the table.

"Is he ill?" she asked in a tone of motherly concern.

"As far as I know, physically he is perfectly fine, but something he learned this morning seems to be bothering him and he refuses to tell me what it is."

Mrs. Hudson nodded as she picked up my relatively empty dishes and Holmes's heavily laden dinner plate. "Just you keep doing the best you can. I'm sure he'll come round soon enough," she said, and left me to my dessert and dark musings.

It was obviously _something_ about this Roderick Cauldwell and what had happened five years ago that was the cause of my friend's agitation, as he had been completely calm and collected until Mycroft mentioned that name. The name "Cauldwell" wasn't in any of Holmes's reference books (I had done a bit of investigating earlier in the day). Of course, he could very easily be mentioned in some of the documents Holmes had stored in the bookcase and trunk in his bedroom, and I would be none the wiser, as those papers were very strictly off limits for me.

I had considered inquiring of Mycroft about this Cauldwell fellow, but something about doing so seemed extremely underhanded and dishonest to me. If Holmes didn't want me to know, then I would not make it my business—unless his health became affected, in which case it would be completely irresponsible, both as his friend and his physician, to ignore it.

I absentmindedly finished my pudding, which I ate more for Mrs. Hudson's sake than any appetite. I trudged up the flight of stairs to my room, from whence I could hear Holmes's disconsolate and sometimes absolutely depressing violin improvisations wafting from below well into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for all the positive reviews, guys! **

**I would especially like to thank Oliver, who reviewed as a guest, so I couldn't thank in a PM.**

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**Chapter Two**

**_Watson_**

The next morning, I went down to the sitting room, where my friend was already seated in his chair by the fire and appeared to be doing his very best to fill the room with tobacco smoke. Waving my hand in front of my face and coughing, I crossed the room as quickly as was possible taking into account the limited visibility, and threw open a window. I inhaled deeply; the chillier-than-usual April breeze was far more pleasant than the toxic fumes in the sitting room. Holmes was apparently too deep in thought (or the smoke was too thick) to notice my presence, so I sat down at the table alone and rang for my breakfast.

A short while later Mrs. Hudson brought up enough breakfast for both Holmes and myself, and informed me that my friend had "been smoking that infernal pipe of his as though his very life depended upon making all of the air in the flat unbreathable!" all morning, and had refused to take any breakfast. She went on to mutter something about his being "nearly impossible to deal with, Lord save the man!"

I promised the nettled woman that I would do my best to convince him to eat something. She gave a fierce you-had-better-follow-through-with-that look, which transitioned smoothly into a gentle smile before she withdrew from the room.

"Holmes," I said from my seat at the table. I received no response. "_Holmes!_" I repeated his name more loudly, causing him to jump and turn his head so quickly that I feared he would snap something in his neck.

"What do you want?" he growled after snatching his pipe from his mouth, annoyed at being startled out of his thoughts. He looked generally unkempt, and did not appear to have slept or shaved. This struck me as an odd combination, as the former was common while he was on a case, and the latter when he was without one.

"Have some breakfast," I said, carefully keeping my tone somewhere between coaxing and chipper.

Holmes's scowl deepened, but any effect it might have had was spoiled by his childishly pathetic whine of, "I don't _want_ breakfast."

"I'm not going to sit here and watch you starve yourself," I replied calmly, feeling oddly like a father addressing an irresponsible son. "Eat." I emphasised my words by spearing a sausage with my fork.

"No," he replied with an air of finality and turned his back to me.

I decided to try a different tactic. Heaving a dramatic sigh, I planted my elbow on the table and rested my chin in my hand. "Holmes, _please_ don't make me eat by myself again," I said, making my voice as pathetically miserable as I could. He sat up a little straighter, and I could picture the indecision in his grey eyes, though he was facing the other direction. This tactic had served me fairly well in the years before my marriage, and had worked even more efficiently after my friend's return nearly a year previously.

Then his shoulders slumped again and he made no reply.

Frowning, my gaze fell back onto my plate of sausage and eggs. What on earth was upsetting Holmes so much? This was worse than the darkest depressions he had fallen into since his return. There were many times he would act like this before my marriage, but they were all caused by a lack of mental stimulation, which he did not lack now. Again, my mind was drawn to the strange circumstances of his black mood.

If only the stubborn man would simply tell me what was upsetting him!

I left the flat around eight to run a few errands that I had been putting off for far too long, and when I returned—just before luncheon—Mrs. Hudson informed me that Holmes had left about half an hour after I did, and had not told her where he was going or when he intended to return.

Just after seven o'clock, Mrs. Hudson laid supper for both Holmes and myself (sometimes I wondered if she had a sixth sense for knowing when my friend would return to the flat) and I had only just started on the meal when he opened the sitting room door with a loud crash and cheerfully exclaimed, "Ah! Mrs. Hudson's made supper for me as well? That's wonderful—I'm starving!" His abrupt entry had caused me to inhale my soup and as I sat gasping and spluttering, Holmes's grin changed to an expression of endearing concern. "Are you all right, Watson?" he asked, quickly striding toward me. I nodded and waved him off while I finished clearing my windpipe.

"I'm fine," I managed to gasp, and when Holmes was satisfied that my words were true, he proceeded to toss his hat, stick and overcoat into their "usual" places about the room, and joined me at the table, fairly bouncing with suppressed excitement. My eyebrows rose to an even higher position on my forehead when I saw the gusto with which he devoured his soup.

After swallowing, my friend gave me a sheepish grin. "It's been over a day and a half since I last had a bite to eat, and eventually—" he shrugged "—I get hungry."

"Mrs. Hudson will be pleased," I observed, nodding toward his already half-empty soup bowl.

"I certainly hope so," said Holmes smiling, "She is nearly _impossible_ to deal with when she's upset about my eating habits."

I promptly choked on my soup again.

It was Holmes's turn to raise his eyebrows. "What?" he asked innocently.

I managed to clear my airway enough to say, "Nothing." I felt a grin creep onto my face, and I began to chuckle. "It's just, well, Mrs. Hudson used almost those exact words about you this morning."

"Did she really?" Holmes asked curiously, expertly twirling his soup spoon with his long fingers.

"I don't think she was very pleased with your black mood yesterday and this morning," I said. "She's always either fussing over you, or irritated at you."

"She's never irritated at _you_, Watson," Holmes replied in a jealous tone that was very obviously feigned as he brandished his spoon at me. "But I suppose that comes of being the favoured lodger."

I snorted. "We've had this argument before. I'm no more favoured than you are."

"Yes, but she's never burned _your_ toast on purpose," Holmes countered, flourishing his spoon at me.

"You splatter soup everywhere when you do that. And the last time she burned your toast, was the day after you set fire to the new curtains in the sitting room, remember?" I replied coolly. "And _I_ have never broken any windows or dissolved any carpets; I don't improvise on the violin at three in the morning or throw old case records all over the room whenever I can't find the one I'm searching for, and I don't _shout_ at the poor woman from the other side of the flat."

"That's rather harsh," Holmes replied with mock hurt.

"I thought you liked the plain facts," I replied, trying not to smile and ultimately failing.

"I like them better when they're in my favour," he said, grinning mischievously back at me. I shook my head.

The room fell silent, except for the occasional clinking of spoons against bowls. My next task was to satisfy my curiosity about what in the world had altered his mood so drastically.

"So, what did you do this afternoon?" I asked in the best useless-small-talk tone I could muster. Comprehension flashed momentarily through his eyes, and I could tell he had divined what I really wanted to know.

To my disappointment, and slight surprise, he pretended that he hadn't and replied, "Oh, you know…" He waved an airy hand as if to say "the usual" and added, "I called on Scotland Yard to see if there was any news regarding Mycroft's attempted poisoning, dropped by a few of my disguise storage locations, visited the stationers to have a few more calling cards printed—I've been needing more of them for a couple of weeks now…" he trailed off. I noticed that he hadn't met my eyes during his entire statement, and now he was squirming a little in his seat.

After a moment's silence, I asked cautiously, "Holmes, is that _all_ you did today?"

He cleared his throat, and cast his eyes about the room, as if searching for an escape route. "Ye…well, not—not exactly, er, that is to say…no." The detective sighed. "Watson, you're becoming far too clever for me! All right, I shall tell you what has occurred." He took a deep breath. "I paid a visit to Langdale Pike, and when I left him I was a good deal poorer monetarily, but far richer in information."

I leaned forward in my seat, as if to say, "Go on."

"I found out where Cauldwell is hiding," my friend announced, the sheepish look on his face now replaced by a smile of grim satisfaction and his eyes glittered with a hard light that never boded well for whomever was on his mind.

"Do the police know? Does your brother know?" The second question came close upon the heels of the first.

"No, and no," was his half-defiant and half-ashamed reply as he contemplated a spoonful of soup.

"But Mycroft said that this Cauldwell character is dangerous," I objected.

"That is precisely why I have _not_ told them," he responded smoothly, his eyes finally meeting my own.

"Explain yourself."

"Pike not only told me where Cauldwell is staying, he also informed me that he has bought off a number of thugs to keep an eye out for unusual movements of the police, brother Mycroft, and ourselves. If anything out of the ordinary occurs in any of those groups, he will undoubtedly uproot and move to a different location. If we are to catch him, it will require a cool hand and a good deal of finesse. However, I have high hopes that we shall be able to do so in the very near future. Did you happen to notice a clean-shaven fair haired fellow in a tan coat and trousers?

I was momentarily taken aback by my friend's rapid change of subject. "Er, I think may have I seen someone looking fitting that description once or twice," I replied uncertainly. "But —"

"He was following you," Holmes cut in simply. "I had two on me as well, and I took a roundabout path to shake them off. The flat is being watched as well."

"Does Cauldwell know you are investigating?" I asked, soup now all but forgotten.

"Undoubtedly," Holmes replied. "In all probability, he thinks Mycroft put us on his trail."

"Half a moment," I said, confused again. "I'm probably being rather dense, but if Cauldwell already thinks you are investigating, why shouldn't you inform Lestrade that you know where he is?"

Holmes smiled tolerantly. "I did not fully explain myself, did I? Since Scotland Yard's movements are being watched by Cauldwell's men, Cauldwell will know immediately if something out of the ordinary happens."

I nodded.

"That would include telling them Cauldwell's location," Holmes said.

I rubbed my temple. "But if he thinks you're investigating, then why wouldn't you go to the police with that?"

"Because the police are likely to drop everything and barge into Cauldwell's current hideout, or at least send a few people to see what they could discover about it as soon as I did so. This would immediately cause Cauldwell to relocate, and so deprive us of the one solid fact we have so far."

"All right, I think I understand now," I said. "But why should he think Mycroft wanted you to investigate? Besides the fact that we visited his flat yesterday morning, I mean."

For a long moment, Holmes occupied himself by staring into his empty soup bowl. "Let us just say that there is a bit of unpleasant history between Mr. Cauldwell, my brother, and myself." Though he did not say them, the words "that I do not wish to speak about" rang as clearly through the air as the words that were spoken aloud.

I nodded, and he silently thanked me for hearing the unspoken portion of the statement and choosing not to press the matter.

We finished our meal in silence and that evening we probably spoke less than ten words to each other, if we spoke at all. Thankfully, this was because there was nothing to say, and not because of any unpleasant tension between my friend and myself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**_Holmes_**

Watson has asked that I help him to write his account of this case, and I have, albeit reluctantly, agreed. My reluctance is partially due to my limited experience writing literary prose—in fact, I have attempted it only once in the past, and it was far more difficult than I had anticipated—and partially due to the rather personal nature of this particular case. I have only agreed to write my portion of the story because it would be quite incomplete without it, and I could hardly ask him to skip writing up the case at all; after all, my Boswell needs something to do in his free time. He has even promised not to publish it, if I so choose, and as of yet I am undecided on this point.

But I digress.

At about eight o'clock the following morning (Friday), Watson left the flat to fill in for a fellow doctor who was doing something or other that morning (in all probability, Watson told me but I no can longer remember), and I was left to myself.

I contemplated what I should do next. Cauldwell was an imminent danger, and while I knew where he was hiding, I knew little else, so I determined that I should spend the time while Watson was gone in gathering more information, as the majority of my time the previous day had been spent wheedling information out of Pike. (I really needed to do a few favours for the man; he was difficult to get valuable information out of without being given a good reason or good money. I wouldn't be able to go to a concert or out for dinner for at least a month!) After disguising myself as an elderly alcoholic with a bad leg, I set off for the first of a number of different public houses I planned on visiting that day.

My entire excursion ended up being a waste of time and effort, as none of the half-drunken people to whom I discreetly mentioned the name Cauldwell had any idea what I was talking about, and I was forced to leave a few of the pubs after I started earning suspicious looks from various people. There had also been less than the usual number of pub frequenters, due to the fog that was slowly but steadily sweeping over the city, and the general look of rain on the way. (Aforementioned rain arrived shortly before I reached Baker Street, but luckily I was able to retreat into the safety of the flat before becoming more than a little damp.)

From what I had gathered, a fair number of those in London's criminal underworld knew that someone was paying people a good deal of money to keep an eye on the police and a few others, but no one knew this man's name. I was eerily reminded of the whispers I had heard before discovering Moriarty's identity.

When I returned to Baker Street around noon, Mrs. Hudson immediately came to speak to me. "A gentleman came by to see you a short while ago," she informed me as I simultaneously ascended the stairs and removed my wig and rather repulsive false teeth. Her face assumed an expression of disgust. "I didn't like the look of him."

A cold feeling spread through my chest. Mrs. Hudson's instincts tended to be very accurate, at least regarding good English food and a person's character. "Did you recognise him? Did he leave a card?" I asked as I shrugged off the shabby frock coat I had donned as part of my disguise.

"No, and yes," she answered, handing me the card. _Roderick Cauldwell, Chemist_. It was a normal thickness for a calling card, and there were no stains, marks, or scents from which I could draw deductions. I flipped it over. The words on the back were printed in all capital letters with a dull pencil with more pressure than was necessary to write them. It was definitely a man's handwriting, but other than that I could tell nothing at all from it.

_TREAD LIGHTLY_.

I cursed, causing my landlady to jump. "What did this man say to you when he came?" I asked.

"He asked me if he could see you, and when I told him you were out, he inquired after the Doctor," she answered. How glad I was that Watson was not here when that man—whether it was Cauldwell or a confederate—dropped by the flat.

"Did you tell him where Watson was?"

"The Doctor didn't tell me exactly where he was going, so I couldn't have told him if I had wanted to. And I didn't want to. Like I said, I didn't like the look of him one bit." She shook her head vehemently.

"Describe this man to me," I said, more harshly than I had intended.

"Well," she said slowly, "he had black hair, and very pale skin. And a long scar down the side of his face. Left side, I think."

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from swearing again in front of the poor woman; her description matched Cauldwell's appearance when I had last seen him!

I nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said, and headed for my bedroom to change out of my disguise. This visit to the flat was obviously a warning, the words on the card testified to that, but what else could it mean? It certainly meant that he was keeping a close eye on us, or at least our flat. It was Cauldwell himself who had stopped at our rooms, so it was very likely that he wanted me to know we were being watched closely enough that he —

I froze in the act of washing off my face. I hadn't seen the man watching 221b when I had returned. Where had he gone? Sick uneasiness knotted my stomach as I hastily completed my toilette. When I was once again dressed, I left my bedroom and shouted for the landlady as I sprinted across the flat. Watson could think of my behaviour as he chooses; this was a matter of utmost urgency!

Said landlady met me on the stairs leading to the kitchen and her rooms. "Well, Mr. Holmes, I'm very glad that you didn't force me to traipse all the way up t—"

"Mrs. Hudson, when did this man arrive?" I asked.

"About a quarter hour before noon," she replied, miraculously unruffled by my interruption.

I had passed the flat around twenty minutes before noon, and the man assigned to watch the flat (in this case, a lanky man with light brown hair) had been there, so he must have left around the same time. I wasn't exactly sure why this connection was so vitally important, but all of my instincts screamed that it was so. I thanked Mrs. Hudson once more, and when she asked if I would be having luncheon I replied in the positive, before returning to the sitting room to think.

Catching sight of Watson's desk, I felt another pang of fear travel through me at the sight of both my friend's revolver and pocketbook lying on his desk. I vainly attempted to convince myself that my worry was a result of my overactive—not to mention morbid—imagination. Grabbing one of my more comforting pipes, I stuffed it with tobacco from the Persian slipper before collapsing in my chair by the fire.

Since Cauldwell knew neither Watson nor myself would be at the flat when he arrived, the message was a warning, either for both of us or for me. The latter option seemed more likely, due in part to the fact that I am the detective, and in part to the bit of history between the two of us. But what exactly was the message implying? Apparently, I was to be careful in my meddling in their affairs, but why hadn't the missive simply said, "Drop the case" or something a trifle more straightforward?

Just as I was pondering this, I heard a bit of quiet but frantic knocking on the door of the flat, and Mrs. Hudson's quick and even footsteps as she descended the stairs to answer it, followed by a cry of dismay that rang through the flat as squelching footsteps rushed up the stairs. I stood up from my chair, and spun around in time to see the entrance of a small fair haired boy with rain-splattered clothing and mud soaked shoes (which were apparently the source of Mrs. Hudson's distress). I recognised the lad as he ran across the room toward me: he was Tom Jacobson, the five-year-old brother of one of my Irregulars.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" he cried as he reached me. I lowered myself to one knee to get down closer to his height.

"Tom, whatever is the matter?" I noticed that he was shaking, and I could tell from his terrified blue eyes that it was from more than just a chill from the splatters of rain on his clothing.

He didn't answer, but instead pulled a small and slightly crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, and gave it to me with an unsteady hand.

It was a calling card.

My blood ran cold as I read the name. _Roderick Cauldwell._ Turning it over, I saw four words that sent a thrill of horror through every particle of my being.

_OR THE DOCTOR DIES_.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my best friend, Cole, because I made him wait well over six months for it, and he asked, begged, and pleaded for it so often during that time that it that "Chapter Four" became a bit of a running joke.**

**Also, thanks again to all of my reviewers, and all of you who are reading but haven't left reviews. I appreciate all of you. Now I shall be silent and let you read...**

* * *

**Chapter Four**

**_Watson_**

"Thank you so much!" gushed the young Dr. Lewis for the umpteenth time.

"It was nothing, really," I replied, smiling back at him, and closed the door of his practice behind me. As I started toward Baker Street, I noticed that the London air had had grown foggier during the five-odd hours I had spent diagnosing patients and prescribing medications. Filling in for Lewis had not been overly difficult, as the usual winter illnesses had already run their course for the year. I was about to call for a cab when I realised that a familiar weight was missing from the pocket of my coat.

I had left my pocketbook back at the flat.

Since I had walked to Lewis's practice, I hadn't even noticed until now. Although I am not easily annoyed by such trivialities, and I was only a good twenty minutes walk away from the rooms I shared with Holmes, I was still a little irritated; not only was it foggier now than it was earlier, the wind had picked up and it looked as though it would likely rain. I pulled my ulster more closely round me, adjusted my grip on my stick and doctor's bag, and trudged onward.

Said irritation increased tenfold when a few raindrops fell from the sky, heralding the arrival of the veritable downpour which soon followed.

I had been walking for no more than ten minutes when I noticed a pair of figures that seemed to be following me. My years of living and working with Holmes had made overly suspicious on that point, so I hastened to assure myself that they only happened to be going the same direction as I was. But even so, I took a roundabout detour through several different alleyways and side streets (I was now very glad Holmes had forced me to learn most of the byways within reasonable walking distance of our flat) in an attempt to shake them off in case they really were pursuing me.

When I glanced over my shoulder again, I realised with a jolt that not only were they still behind me, they were far closer than before and still gaining!

Quickening my pace, I turned right at the next corner I reached, and left after that, then glanced up at a street sign. I was on Marylebone Road. Panting a little now, and shivering as the rain rolled down the back of my neck and soaked into my shirt, I crossed to the side closer to the flat in Baker Street, and made for the nearest alleyway, wishing in vain that I had thought to bring my revolver…and maybe an umbrella. I hurried to the other end without looking back, took another left turn, and didn't slow to catch my breath until in the middle of the next alley.

As I squinted into the fog before me, I saw three men walking swiftly in my direction, all armed with sticks and one with what appeared to be a heavy lead bludgeon. I glanced back through the downpour and saw my two original pursuers. I cursed myself for choosing this particular alley; it was completely deserted in both directions. Fear and anxiety knotted my insides, but adrenaline fueled my energy and heightened my senses. Could I make it around the two behind me if I ran past them quickly enough? That would be the last thing they would expect me to do, especially on the slick cobblestones of the alleyway.

I turned on my heel, and rushed at them as quickly as I could, and hit the man on my right—a thin man with blond hair—in the knees with my stick and he crumpled to the ground. I didn't have long to celebrate my victory, however, as I was immediately tripped by the red-headed man on my left.

My feet flew out from under me and a moment later I hit the ground—hard. My doctor's bag and stick flew out of my grip when I tried to protect my face from the ground, and my arms took the brunt of the fall, but the impact jarred my entire frame. I felt my forehead scrape against the wet stones. I scrambled to my feet, disconcerted by the fall and now acting on sheer instinct rather than brain power.

I managed to snatch up my stick and swing it at the face of the red-headed man. It collided solidly with his nose; I heard a horrible cracking sound followed by a shout of pain, and saw blood out of the corner of my eye as I whirled to face my other assailants.

A lanky man with light brown hair lunged forward, and swung a bludgeon toward my right shoulder, but I dodged it at the last moment. I swung my stick at his midsection and missed, but dodging threw him off balance enough that I had a chance to block the blow the bearded man had been attempting to land on my bad shoulder while the brown-haired man was attempting to regain his footing. I smacked the bearded man on the chest with my stick, and swung at the shins of a tan-faced bald man, who was too slow to block me.

I whirled halfway round to see that the blond man had picked himself up, and rushed at me at the same moment as the lanky man. I jumped back, and their sticks collided with each other's instead of with me. I briefly noticed something gold fall out of the blond man's pocket and hit the ground. The lanky man stumbled forward and crushed the object underfoot.

On my right, the tan-faced man dragged himself to his feet and swung at my face, but I blocked him and managed to hit him across the shins again. The blond man turned toward me, and there was a venomous fire in his eyes as he brought his club down right where my face had been a moment before. My left arm took the blow instead. Pain exploded all through my arm, and tears stung my eyes as I staggered backward and felt something collide hard with the back of my head.

Stars exploded before my eyes and I sank into a sea of darkness.

**_Holmes_**

"Tom, where did you get this?" I demanded.

The small boy gulped. "Oi was on Melcombe Street, sir. When it happened."

"When what happened?" I forced my voice to slow to a calmer rate.

"I'll go get the boy some tea," said Mrs. Hudson from the doorway, Tom's muddy footprints apparently forgotten, at least for the present. That was perfectly fine, as Tom could use some tea and didn't need an upset landlady shrieking about the mud trail he had left in the hall.

Even as this went through my mind, the boy shivered violently, and I took off his coat and laid it in front of the fire, snatched up an afghan and steered him to a chair and gently pushed him down into it. Tom swallowed again. "When they took the Doctor."

"You saw what happened then?" I asked, forcing my tone to remain calm and businesslike, as if I was not hanging on the boy's every word like they were lifelines. I sincerely hoped he had a lead I could follow.

The boy nodded, opened his mouth to answer, and promptly began coughing. The fit lasted maybe twenty seconds and left the lad wheezing. "Oi've caught a bit of a cold, sir, and that run 'ere didn't help it much," he explained hoarsely.

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson entered the sitting room with a pot of tea and a plate of scones, which she placed on a small table within Tom's reach. I seized a pipe from the mantle, and shoving a bit of my shag tobacco in it, returned to my seat as Mrs. Hudson left the room once more.

Tom looked much better after he had taken a few small gulps of tea, and I decided that I was safe questioning him. "Tom, tell me everything you can remember," I said. "The slightest detail could be of immense importance."

Tom nodded seriously, his face screwed up with concentration as he swallowed a bite of scone. "Well, Oi was walking down the street—Chagford Street—to where Oi was s'posed to meet up with my friend Charlie and his little sister Polly. We were goin' to go down to the docks together, but Oi never got to 'em, 'cause when Oi was walkin', Oi saw the Doctor in an alley off the road fightin' off a bunch o' men who was havin' at him with sticks and clubs. Oi didn't know it was the Doctor at first, but then Oi saw his doctor bag layin' on the ground and Oi reco'nised his fightin' style."

Here the boy's eyes glistened and he gave a shaky smile before taking another sip of tea. When he went on, he spoke faster and his Cockney was more unintelligible than ever.

"There was five or six of 'em, and they was all 'itting him, and he tried to knocked 'em down, but they was too much for him, and then the bloke with the beard knocked 'im in the head with 'is club, and 'e fell down an' stopped movin'." Tom wiped his nose on his sleeve, but his breach of etiquette was the farthest thing from my mind at the moment.

"Go on," I said gently, trying to hold in the sudden fury that had surged through my veins as Tom was describing these ruffians attacking my Watson.

"Then they grabbed him up, and one of 'em picked up 'is bag and stick, and then they put 'im in a cab that 'ad pulled up while they was standin' there. The red haired one and the one with blood all over 'is face got in with 'im, and then the big bloke with the beard crossed the street and came up to me. Oi was so scared Oi couldn't even move that whole toime, and Oi was still too scared to move, Mr. 'Olmes. And the man with the beard came up to me an' said 'ello to me, an' asked if Oi knew the Doctor, an' Oi told him Oi did, 'cause Oi din't know wot to say, and 'e asked me if Oi knew you, and Oi told him Oi did. 'E gived me that paper, an 'e told me to run it to you as fast as Oi could, if'n Oi ev'r wanted t' see the Doctor again…"

The boy sniffed, and took another scone. "Did Oi do the roight thing, Mr. 'Olmes?" he asked nervously. "Tellin' 'im Oi knew the Doctor and you?"

I smiled kindly at the boy, though I am afraid the expression probably appeared forced. "You did just fine, Tom. In fact, you were quite brave. Now, can you try to describe the men attacking Watson for me?"

After five or ten minutes of questioning the lad, I hadn't gathered much. Due to Tom's location on the other side of the street and the pouring rain, he hadn't been able to see anything very identifying, except about the man who had come closest to him. I jotted down a list of the things Tom could remember, which consisted of hair colour, facial hair (or lack thereof) and general height.

One man was clean-shaven, of middle height with short white-blond hair. A shorter man had bright red hair and a moustache, and this man had blood all over his face. A third man was clean-shaven, tall and thin with light brown hair, and a fourth was bald and had darker skin than the rest. He was also slightly hunchbacked. The only man for whom Tom had a very specific description was the bearded man, who had come closest to him. This man was, according to Tom, somewhere between Watson's and my height, muscular and broad-shouldered, with a full black beard. His eyes were blue, his hair was curly and he wore a brown weather beaten hat, and a shabby tan suit with a darker brown greatcoat, which had a stain on one of the arms (Tom couldn't recall which).

I was impressed with the lad's memory, but feared this would not be enough information to find any of the men, save perhaps the bearded fellow.

Just as I was completing my gentle interrogation, Mrs. Hudson came up with more sugar for Tom's tea, and asked me if I still planned on eating luncheon at the flat.

"No, Mrs. Hudson," I answered. "I shall have to pay a visit to Scotland Yard as soon as Tom leaves." I briefly considered telling my landlady the reason I needed to visit the police, but decided that I wouldn't want any witnesses when I was forced to calm the hysterical outburst that was sure to follow.

After asking Tom if there was anything else he could remember, and waiting for him to take his last gulp of tea and stuff his pockets with the remaining scones, I grabbed my Inverness and umbrella and followed him to the front door of the flat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**_Holmes_**

The wind had picked up, but luckily the downpour of earlier had tapered off into a light drizzle, which soon ceased, and I found a cab. I climbed in, extremely thankful for the protection from the wind. I made it to the station without event, paid the cabman, and sprinted through the front doors of Scotland Yard. My usual pestering targets of bygone years were pleased that upon this occasion, I was choosing to ignore them and march directly into Inspector Lestrade's office.

Lestrade was not entirely pleased about my barging in unannounced, but I really could not have cared less. After glancing up from the papers on his desk to discover the identity of his visitor, he returned to scratching away on some document on his desk. "If you're here for more information regarding that attempted poisoning of your brother, I don—"

"Inspector Lestrade, Watson has been abducted." Blunt and simple directness were always key in getting the ferret-faced detective's attention, and this time was no exception.

His head shot up so quickly I was sure something in his neck would break. "_What?_"

"Less than an hour ago, in an alley near Chagford Street," I explained, leaning my damp umbrella against his desk and seating myself across from him. "The only witness was a five-year-old street urchin, who was ordered by the abductors to bring me this—" I extracted the calling card Tom had given me from a waistcoat pocket "—which is the second of two messages I have received. The first, Cauldwell brought to the flat himself while Watson and I were out this morning." I took the other card from my pocket and handed it to him as well.

Lestrade studied the cards for a moment, then looked back up at me, frowning. "Cauldwell simply showed up at your flat?" he queried incredulously. "The man's wanted for questioning, and your flat would have to be one of the most dangerous places in London for him!"

"Not if he knew we were both out at the time," I countered. "I am certain we are all being watched: the police, my brother, Watson—before the fiend captured him—and myself."

"That's hardly a comforting thought," Lestrade muttered to himself. "You know I'll have to keep these," he said apologetically, holding up the cards. "Police evidence, you know."

I nodded; there was nothing more to be deduced from them, and would do no more good in my hands than they would in his.

"Do you have any information regarding the people who captured the Doctor?" he asked.

"Only what I could glean from the boy who saw it happen," I replied gravely, handing him the notes I had scribbled down based on Tom's description of the abductors. "It won't be much to go on," I warned.

Lestrade scanned the paper. "Only two descriptions here are worth anything at all: the more detailed description of the bearded man, and that of the blond man." He looked up at me. "We had a man very much like your description of the blond chap in here last week on a murder investigation. The evidence was too circumstantial and his alibi too strong for us to charge him, but I was certain of his guilt and remain so. He had that particular smug look about him. I shall do my best to have him brought in about this, and have the alleys around…was it Chagford Street, did you say?"

I nodded.

"I'll make sure the alleys near Chagford Street are searched for any evidence and the fair-haired fellow is brought in. I shall also see what I can do with this description of the bearded man. You don't mind if I keep this?" He held up the paper.

"Not at all," I replied, and stood up, realising as the shock from the whole ordeal was wearing off that I was a few bad seconds away from a complete emotional collapse. I needed to get out immediately. "That is all I have for you for now, but I'll notify you as soon as anything happens."

"And if anything happens at my end, I shall send a wire immediately, or if I'm in the area, come in person," Lestrade returned.

"Good day to you, Inspector." I snatched my umbrella and hastily turned to leave, but before I had taken two steps, I heard Lestrade's voice behind me in a soft, almost gentle tone I had never before heard.

"Holmes, I sincerely hope Dr. Watson is found soon. For all our sakes." I turned to face him, and saw in his unusually open face a mixture of sympathy and worry.

"As do I," I replied solemnly, attempting to hold on to my swiftly crumbling composure. I wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer.

It didn't occur to me until I was already well on my way back to Baker Street that this was the first time Lestrade had addressed me as "Holmes" without the title "Mr.". There were certainly unexplored depths to this man.

My thoughts had taken a darker turn by the time I found myself back in my bedroom removing my soggy clothing. After replacing said clothing with a much dryer dressing gown, I grabbed a pipe at random, stuffed it with tobacco, and began to pace, my mind a veritable whirlwind of confused thoughts and emotions.

How could I have been so stupid as to allow my only friend to leave the flat penniless and unarmed with a villain like Cauldwell on the loose? I had fairly handed the one person I cared about most to the man who was most deserving of my loathing. No other man—living or dead—has ever harmed me more deeply this, this _fiend_, and no matter how un-Christian some would say it is, I could never forgive him for what he had done. And now, because of my doltishness, Watson was in his power, and it was my duty as friend, comrade, and detective to get him out of it.

Quickening my pacing, I attempted to channel my thoughts in the direction of helping him escape, but it was of no use; my emotion-fraught mind kept bringing the train of thought back to my dearest friend.

Watson meant far more to me than I cared to admit, even to him…especially to myself. I reflected grimly that I had been acting rather selfishly around him these past few days. If that was the last thing he remembered of me—

Good heavens! What was I thinking? I refused to contemplate such a thing, but the thrice cursed logical portion of my brain pointed out in painful clarity that it was entirely possible that I might never see him again in this life. Cauldwell had killed in cold blood before, and (to him) what was the life of yet another man? The second note indicated that he fully intended to end Watson's life if I did not comply with his demands.

But what were these demands? All I had to go on was a very vague "Tread lightly." This meant almost nothing, so I was really unable to do anything until I received word from Cauldwell, unless I wanted to risk Watson's life, something I would never do.

I would rather die myself than risk his life, and I was blessed with a companion who would readily do the same for me, much to my horror upon various occasions in the past. Again, my mind flew back to the past few days and how rudely I had treated my friend, and how readily he had accepted it. Though come to think of it, he was probably used to such treatment from me after so many years of it before my "death".

I firmly shook myself out of my introspective meanderings, and attempted to focus on the problem at hand, but I found that I did so in vain. My muddled and sleep-deprived brain refused to function, and for the first time, it occurred to me that it had been rather a long time since I had last had a normal night's rest, and I had not slept at all in the last forty-eight hours. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was only half past one in the afternoon, but I wondered if I should turn in at once. My confused mind needed the rest, and my body was expressing its displeasure in the form of annoyingly persistent yawning.

Now that I had noticed how tired I was, the feeling grew a thousand times more powerful, and as I stifled a yawn that made my eyes water, I put my pipe back into its place and sat down in my chair, which I noted sleepily seemed even more comfortable than usual. It was a very nice chair; I remembered staking a claim on it that first day Watson and I had moved into the flat. The other chair was far more stiff, and I had selfishly left it for my half-crippled fellow-lodger. Come to think of it, I used to be rather selfish…goodness, this chair was comfortable…

**_Watson_**

As I gradually returned to consciousness, I wondered why the whole world was shaking, why I was soaking wet, and most importantly, why I couldn't remain blissfully asleep. There was a painful pounding in the back of my head and a sharp pain in my left arm, both of which only grew worse as my thoughts grew more lucid. Had I been hit by an omnibus? Judging by my injuries—which seemed to include a broken left arm, a possible concussion, and a multitude of scrapes and bruises (including a particularly nasty cut on my forehead and bruise on my right shin) all over my body—I'd had rather a rough time of it lately.

Suddenly, memories of the previous events flashed through my mind in the space of an instant, causing me to open my eyes and sit upright with a gasp—I seemed to have been in a sitting position with my upper body folded over my legs, and my hands were secured behind my back with a strong rope. I saw that I was in a Clarence brougham (hence the shaking), along with my two original pursuers. Despite the slight dizziness caused by the sudden movement and the pounding in my head, I was still able to see the faces of my attackers a little more clearly.

The man sitting to my right had white-blond hair, a pale, cadaverous face with a long hooked nose which dominated the majority of his face. He had high cheekbones I can only describe as being vaguely aristocratic, and cold eyes a watery shade of blueish green. The man seated across from me had dark red hair and was heavierset than his companion—but by no means unfit—with florid cheeks and bright green eyes set closely together. The rest of his face was obscured by the bloody handkerchief he was holding to his broken nose.

Holmes would be proud.

Holmes. I suddenly realised that my friend was probably the reason I had been attacked and abducted in the first place, for use as bait or persuasion, and I did much care for the prospect of either.

The blond man regarded me coolly. "Joining us, are you?" he drawled in an annoyingly confident voice. I suddenly wished I had broken his nose as well. Reining in my suddenly rather out-of-control emotions, I gave him the darkest glower I could muster. He gave me an exaggerated smile of mock pity, then leaned forward to get a better look at the red-headed man. "Jeff, how long was 'e out?"

"'Ow ab Oi subosed to dow?" demanded the man called "Jeff", the combination of his strong Irish accent and broken nose rendering him nearly incomprehensible.

The blond man shrugged. "You'll know better'n I do," he replied serenely. "My watch is broken." So that was the object I had seen fall out of his pocket during the fracas of earlier.

Interesting.

"Well, Oi had to pawn bine jus' las' week," Jeff replied.

"Run out of drinking money?" asked the blond man in a half-taunting, half-serious manner.

Jeff's face flushed to a shade of red deeper than his hair. "You bloody scou'drel! By wife _died _las' week an' you dab well dow it!" His voice was angry, but in a coldly dangerous way. "Ib you eber gibe me any excuse, Oi swear, Oi'll _kill_ you!"

I suddenly wasn't nearly so proud of my work on this man's face, and was disgusted to see that his blond companion only stared at him for a moment before turning his attention to a hole in his glove and nonchalantly replying, "That's not the first death threat I've received in my time."

"Hab you eber woddered why dat bight be?"

"No, and I don't much care either," he drawled in a bored manner, leaning back in his seat and stretching.

"Why od earth did Rogers make you seco'd-id-cobband?" Jeff muttered under his breath, but the blond man heard him.

"Probably because I'm quicker, more intelligent, and a better leader than any other man in our little gang," he replied serenely.

"Dod't forget 'hubblest'," muttered the Irishman, whose blood seemed to be finally starting to find its way out of his face.

"Arguably," the blond man said and turned to me. "But we're forgetting our manners, Jeff. I'm Williams, and this fellow here is Jefferson. It's _wonderful_ to meet you." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

I nodded once, but made no verbal reply, hoping it would deter him from continuing to speak.

After a few minutes of silence, Williams said, "So, Doctor, would you like to know where you're going, and why it is we're taking you there?"

"Do I have a choice?" I asked through gritted teeth, preparing my sluggish mind for a long and painful speech.

"No, because while I _do_ know where it is we're going, I have no idea why we're taking you there, and I'm under strict orders not to tell you either, even if I knew the latter," was his smug response.

Jefferson muttered something I couldn't quite hear, but I'm reasonably certain it contained a few choice curse words. "Will, you hab the bost irridating se'se of hubour Oi habe eber edcoudered, ad Oi've bet a good bany irritading people in my tibe. Do us both a fabour, and shut your bloody bouth!"

Williams shrugged, quietly enjoying the Irishman's reaction, and turned back to the window. I tried to peer surreptitiously out the window next to me in an attempt to determine where we were, careful to avoid straining the tight bindings. Unfortunately, he noticed, and said in the stern tone of a father addressing a young and foolish child, "No peeking, Doctor, or we'll have to blindfold you." He pulled a piece of cloth out of a coat pocket and waved it in front of my face as if to prove the validity of his statement. "The only reason we haven't done so yet is out of the kindness of our hearts," he added in a mocking tone as he dramatically placed a hand over his chest. I noticed it was a good distance away from where his heart would actually be. Apparently, this man was no anatomy expert.

Jefferson made a sound resembling muffled snort, but said nothing. Williams returned to his inspection of the view outside the window. After a minute or two, I turned my head, ever so slowly, though it abused an angry bruise on my shoulder to no end. I could barely tell my head was turning, but I could just barely see out of the corner of my eye now, and if I could only make it one more inch—

"That will never do," said the blond man, turning on me and shaking his head as he brought the blindfold up to my face. He tied it securely, and I thanked Providence that the lump on my head was low enough the blindfold would not aggravate it. My sole consolation in the sudden darkness was that I would have been blindfolded sooner or later anyway, and as there hadn't been much to see before, I really wasn't missing much.

Unfortunately, it is true that when one sense is deprived from a man, the other senses strengthen tremendously. While improved hearing or sense of touch might have been helpful to me in a different situation, in this case they only served to aggravate my injuries further. Every noise sent a flash of pain through my head, and every bump and curve the cab took caused my various injuries—especially my left arm, which I was now certain was broken—to throb painfully. I was very lucky my assailants hadn't been any rougher than they were, or I might have ended up with permanent damage. As it was, I was convinced that I would soon be right again, as long as I allowed my arm time to heal…and wasn't tortured wherever it was I was going. I only wished we would get there faster!

After an indeterminable length of time, my wish came true. The cab slowed to a halt and the door on my right swung open. I heard Williams clamber out of the cab, and felt the sturdy hands of the red-headed man guiding me to the edge and Williams helping me to the ground. The latter took a few slightly limping steps away and said something to the driver (or to someone else, but I assumed it was the driver), and then returned as the cab began to rattle down the street. I suddenly noticed it was no longer raining, and the wind had died down considerably. The cool, light breeze that remained felt wonderful on my abused head.

The blond man put a hand on my shoulder and led me forward; Jefferson followed. A moment later, I heard from behind me the unmistakable sound of slipping on wet pavement followed by vehement swearing. Williams stopped in his tracks.

"What is it?" he asked impatiently.

"Agh! My dose is bleedin' agaid!" the other exclaimed angrily.

"Well, there's nothing you can do about that now," he said, then added in a harsh whisper, "We need to get the Doctor inside before someone recognises him."

"All roight!" the Irishman muttered.

Williams took me by the arm and led me forward. His companion followed closely behind me, breathing loudly through his mouth and occasionally mumbling half-coherent profanities under his breath. We took five steps forward on the pavement, then entered a building with a sort of musty smell that reminded me of little-used or abandoned buildings. I was led forward for perhaps fifteen paces, and pushed roughly into a chair, to which my legs were soon tied. My blindfold was removed, and I saw that we were in some sort of warehouse, which had been abandoned for quite some time now. Even in the rather dim light, I could see that dust coated the old crates here and there, as well as most of the floor.

Behind me, I felt the rope being removed, and heard Williams saying, "I'll let you stretch a bit, but don't get any bright ideas, Doctor." He then removed my coat, no doubt to confiscate anything I had in my pockets, which is, I'm sure, the only reason my hands had been untied.

I stretched my right arm in front of me, my stiff joints popping as I did so. I looked closely at my left. Beyond all doubt, it was broken, and needed a wrap—it had started to swell. Thankfully, I was fairly certain it was a closed fracture, and the bone had not been displaced. I held the bottom of my shirt between my teeth and used my right hand to rip off a section and proceeded to wrap it around my damaged limb as best I could. Tying it was an even more difficult task, but I soon discovered a method that worked and ended up with a passable, if not overly secure, knot holding my makeshift bandage. A sling certainly wouldn't hurt, but I doubted I would be seeing my doctor's bag any time soon. Even so, I felt an odd satisfaction with my work, though my limb still hurt terribly.

When I had finished, I looked back toward the blond man, who was staring at me with something akin to amusement in his eyes. "Too proud to ask for help, aren't you?" he said. "Now put your hands back here so I can tie 'em up."

I did so, as I didn't seem to have any other sensible options available to me, and soon my wrists, as well as my ankles, were tied loosely, but securely to the chair. So much for any attempts to escape.

"Well, enjoy your stay, Doctor," said the man Williams, "at least while you can."

With that, the two of them left me alone in my uncomfortable prison.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

**_Holmes_**

"Mr. Holmes!"

The piercing voice of my landlady rang through my head and I awoke with a start.

"Wha' is it?" I heard myself demand in a slurred voice as I tried to figure out why I was so stiff. And why I was in a chair.

"A visitor, so you'll probably want to make yourself a bit more presentable," she said, eyeing my likely rather dishevelled self rather disdainfully. "It's Inspector Lestrade."

"Send 'im up," I said through a yawn and she started toward the door.

Suddenly the events of earlier that day hit me with the force of a load of brick, and I realised with a sickening jolt that Mrs. Hudson still did not know about Watson.

What a fool I was!

My landlady suddenly turned back toward me and, as if sensing my thoughts, asked, "By the way, do you know when the Doctor will be back?" I could hear the motherly concern in her voice, and it deepened the cold fear—and was that guilt?—in my chest. "It's after two, and I was under the impression that he would be returning around one."

I heard footsteps on the stairs, and Lestrade's raised voice. "Mr. Holmes! This is urgent! I must speak with you, immediately!"

"Can you wait another moment, Inspector?" I shot back, my raised voice causing Mrs. Hudson to flinch. As I stood and attempted (in vain) to smooth my rumpled clothing, I turned to my uneasy landlady. "Erm, you see, Mrs. Hudson," I said, choosing my words carefully and hoping Lestrade would wait a minute longer. "While Watson was on his way back to the flat, he ran into a bit of trouble."

She gave me a sharp look. "What sort of trouble?"

I ran a finger under my wilting collar. "Well..." As Mrs. Hudson's facial expression grew increasingly fearful at my hesitation, I hastened onward in my statement. "Watson has been abducted."

"He's _what_?" she shrieked. I had no idea her voice could attain such a pitch.

I took a few steps forward, and placing my hands somewhat awkwardly on her shoulders to steady her, I said, "I did not stutter. Please do not force me to repeat myself."

She fumbled for words for a few moments before asking, "Do you know where he is? Can you help him?"

I was about to answer when Lestrade appeared unceremoniously in the doorway of the sitting room. His surprised and rather discomfited facial expression did much to lighten my mood.

"Good afternoon Inspector," I said, and returned my gaze to Mrs. Hudson. "I don't have much to go on yet, but I have high hopes that Inspector Lestrade here can help me to find him. Go downstairs have a cup of tea, and I shall speak with you in a short while."

I patted her gently on the shoulder, and she nodded. "I'll go have that spot of tea. I hope you find the Doctor soon." She turned and left the room with far less of her usual energy, her expression and bearing troubled.

I turned to still uncomfortable-looking Inspector, stretching my stiff muscles, thankful that my nap had allowed me to rein in my emotions, at least to some degree. "Well?"

He looked blankly at me for a moment, and then exclaimed, "Oh! We found the alley where the fight took place. I'm surprised you weren't already there, to be honest."

Why on earth had I returned to Baker Street without first going to that alley?! How stupid of me!

"I was rather distracted," I replied.

"Well, anyway," Lestrade continued, appearing even more troubled now, "the only things left behind were a broken pocket watch, a splash of blood, and this calling card." He pulled the damp card out of a pocket, and I felt a wave of nausea go through me when I saw that one of the corners was soaked in blood. How easily it could be Watson's...

Pushing aside all such thoughts, I took the card.

_Roderick Cauldwell_...

I flipped it over.

_COME ALONE TO 17 SHEFFIELD TERRACE AT FOUR THIS AFTERNOON IF YOU WISH TO NEGOTIATE TERMS WITH ME._

17 Sheffield Terrace.

I suddenly realised that this was the house Cauldwell had been hiding. Why on earth would he want me to meet him in a place he was using to stay undercover? Because that would be the last thing I would expect? Or because he knew that I had already discovered his hiding place?

Keeping my face studiously blank, I proceeded to see what could be deduced from the card.

It was written in the same handwriting as the others, so there was nothing to be learned there. The blood was the only distinctive feature, and there was no particular scent, save of rather cheap ale, which didn't tell me anything except that it had been handled by a lower class drinker, or there had been ale spilled in that alley recently. I cursed inwardly; Cauldwell was less predictable and better at covering his tracks than almost any other criminal I had pursued—barring Moriarty, of course.

Again shoving emotional thoughts to the back of my mind, I returned my gaze to Lestrade. "Have you found out who lives at this address? Do you need this back?"

"No, and yes," he said.

I handed the card back to him.

"I have little doubt that this message is meant for you, Mr. Holmes," he said, carefully replacing the card in his pocket.

It took a good deal of my willpower to stop myself from responding with a biting, caustic remark, just to relieve a bit of pent up fear, anger, and frustration upon the little Inspector, but I knew what Watson would think of that, and with a great effort I kept my mouth closed and simply nodded. "I suggest that you take care of any official business that is left for you, and see what you can do about discovering who lives at this address. I shall go to this 17 Sheffield Terrace at four. Until then, I will speak with my landlady, send out my Irregulars to watch that address, and inform my brother of these new developments."

"Street urchins, Mr. Holmes?" said Lestrade dubiously. "With the whole Yard at your back, you would rather have street urchins? I know those boys have been useful in the past, but..."

I sighed impatiently. "We are being watched, Inspector. If you and your men investigate, or try to flush Cauldwell out, you'll be seen for sure, and I refuse to take any chances with Watson's life on the line."

"I agree wholeheartedly with you, at least on that point," said Lestrade. "By the way, have you found out where it is Cauldwell's been lurking?"

I hesitated.

"You have, haven't you," he said, a statement not a question. He sighed. "Why is it you haven't told me?" His tone wasn't accusatory; it was more resigned or exasperated than anything.

I sighed. "If you and a bunch of your constables come marching in, he'll be long gone before you even reach the front door. We're all being watched, so the only way to keep him where he is to stay away. But my Irregulars can pass unnoticed almost anywhere, and I have great confidence in their abilities gathering information."

Lestrade's face creased into a hard frown. "I don't like it much, but I suppose you're right. Will you drop by the Yard after your…visit at four to inform us of any fresh developments?"

"Yes," I replied. "And as it is possible that something might happen to me, if you have not seen me by, say six o'clock this evening, something has happened to hinder my coming to the Yard, and it would be wise to discover what that might be."

Lestrade nodded again and turned to leave, but before he completed the action he looked back at me, with an expression on his face that I couldn't quite place. "Do you know why Mr. Cauldwell is doing this?"

I shook my head. "I have almost nothing to go on, but it's not money he wants or he would have asked for a ransom. The only thing I can think of is that he has some sort of personal vendetta against me as, so far, everything that he has done seems to have been to deliberately harm people closest to me."

The Inspector stared at me sadly for a long moment. "I may not know all of what is going on here, but we both know very well that Cauldwell is ruthless and dangerous, and all I ask of you is that you use your eyes, watch your back, and avoid looking for ways to rashly attack Cauldwell, not matter how tempting it might seem. Good luck, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, that same indefinable expression upon his face that I had seen in his office at Scotland Yard, and with that he took his leave.

As I listened to his retreating footsteps upon the stairs, I glanced at the clock.

A quarter after two.

I should have just enough time to say a few words to Mrs. Hudson, send my trusty Irregulars on their way, and visit my brother before I would have to embark on my journey to 17 Sheffield Terrace.

**_Watson_**

After Williams and Jefferson left me, I decided to do a quick mental check of all my injuries. My broken arm was now wrapped, and as long as there was no further damage to it, it would be able to heal. To my immense relief, the blow I had taken to the back of the head did not appear to have given me a concussion—though it had left me with a very painful headache which seemed to grow worse with every throb—and I was now sure that none of my other injuries were serious, though they would take a couple days to heal, during which I would be deucedly uncomfortable.

Now that I knew my physical state was no longer a cause for concern, questions and worries returned. What did these people want from me? Did anyone know I was gone yet? If Holmes _did_ know, how was he holding up? I knew my friend well enough to know that he was most likely distraught and worried, and it was unlikely that he would get the sleep he sorely needed. I silently prayed that Holmes wouldn't worry too much…and that we would both get out of this alive.

The chair to which I was tied was near the centre of the musty room, which had a smelled vaguely of fish. Was I near the docks, or was my tired imagination playing tricks on me?

I must have fallen into a light doze, because I awoke to hear the sound of approaching footsteps—my back was to the door. There were two people, by the sound of it. I craned my neck in an attempt to see who was entering. It was the man, Williams, and an unfamiliar face.

This man was shorter than Williams, standing roughly five and a half feet, and he was younger and more sturdily built with broad shoulders. Clean shaven with a strong jaw and light brown hair, which he wore at a length nearer to that of a student than a common street thug, his facial expression and bearing spoke of a volatile nature and his clothes of a less-than-respectable lifestyle. His sandy brows seemed to be affixed as low as they could possibly be without completely obscuring the dark green eyes beneath them. This, combined with his long and slightly hooked nose gave him the general appearance of a vulture staring down its prey.

Said prey, in this case, was me.

Williams gestured toward his companion. "This is Mr. Brown, call him whatever he tells you to. He'll be your guard for now, so have a pleasant afternoon." With that, he left the warehouse.

Brown nodded to me, and crossed the room, where he grabbed a chair, which he dragged across the room. Placing it five or six feet away from mine he seated himself, reclining comfortably in it.

"So, what brings you here?" he asked casually, as though we were conversing in a café rather than in a warehouse where I was being held against my will.

"I'm not exactly sure," I answered evasively, unsure if Brown was simply curious, or if he was under orders to fish for information.

"You'll know better'n I do," he replied. "That numskull Williams never tells me anything, and he's in command when Rogers ain't around."

"Rogers?" I asked tentatively, hoping to leech a bit of useful information from my so-called "guard" without angering him.

"James Rogers," he answered. "Rogers is in charge of the group of us that're based here. There's eight of us in total, if you count Rogers."

I nodded.

Shifting in his seat, he said, "You never answered my question. Why did they nab you?"

"I'm not exactly sure why," I answered slowly.

"C'mon now," he said. "I'm not looking for information to pass on to the higher ups. I'm jus' curious, is all." His expression might have been intended to look curious, but it came off as more of a leer.

I shook my head, and immediately regretted the action. Wincing, I said, "I really don't know."

"Suit yerself," he replied, shrugging.

Silence fell, and I shifted in my seat so I wasn't leaning against my right shoulder—it seemed to have gotten a particularly nasty bruise, but I couldn't recall having been hit there by anyone…though my recollection of the struggle of earlier was rather hazy.

After what seemed like a very, very long time, the door behind me suddenly swung open, causing both Brown to start, and me to whip my head around far too quickly.

When my vision cleared, I saw that the man who entered the room was perhaps a couple inches shy of six feet. His clothes were average for the middle-aged gentleman he appeared to be, but appeared far more extravagant when viewed in the dusty warehouse or compared to Brown's shoddy attire. The man's skin was extremely pale, and his hair was a shade of black so dark that it appeared to be almost blue, and his prominent cheekbones drew attention to the long scar running from the corner of his left eye to the sardonic smile upon his lips. Something about his general attitude caused me to immediately dislike him.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said in a voice a slightly lower than I had expected to hear. "Mr. Brown, please leave us. Your services are no longer required here."

Brown jumped out of his seat and fairly flew out of the door. The man with the scar seated himself in the chair Brown had just vacated.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked in a slightly curious but largely emotionless voice.

"I have a guess," I answered slowly. If Brown, a very robust man, had run like a frightened rabbit from this man, then there must be good reason to fear him.

"Which is…?" He looked at me with an expression that would have been full of curiosity if it had not been for the disturbingly empty eyes.

"Are you Mr. Roderick Cauldwell?" I asked hesitantly.

"I am," he replied, his dark eyes filling with something akin to surprise. "Good, very good. You're sharper than you portray yourself in those stories of yours, Dr. Watson."

I couldn't for the life of me tell if he was being honest or sarcastic, so I made no reply.

Cauldwell stared at me for a full minute before speaking. "Now, do you know _why_ you are here?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow slightly.

I started to shrug, but it aggravated too many injuries to complete the action. Fighting back a grimace, I replied, "Because you wanted me here?"

He frowned slightly. "Close, but not quite. Think for a minute."

I really was not in the mood for playing mind games with a criminal, and told him so in no uncertain terms, adding, "One of your men hit me in the head with a club not an hour ago. You can't possibly expect me to be thinking lucidly enough…" I trailed off as somewhere in the back of my muddled brain, I registered what he was trying to say. "I'm here because you _don't_ want me somewhere else."

"Precisely." His lips curved upward into a smirk, causing his scar to warp strangely on the side of his face. "Now, can you imagine where that might be?"

I closed my eyes, torn between curiosity and the pain. The pounding in my head was distracting my thoughts, but I thought I could tell what he was driving at. "With Holmes?"

"My dear Doctor!" he exclaimed, chuckling in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Holmes's reaction on the rare occasions when I succeeded at making any sort of deduction.

I shuddered and closed my eyes again; his laugh was not helping my headache.

"Excellent, excellent. Now, why wouldn't I want you to be with Holmes?"

I repressed a groan, and before I could stop myself spat out an irritable, "Who do you think you are, Socrates? Please, tell me what you want me to know and be done with it. My head…ugh…" I trailed off and closed my eyes as said portion of my anatomy gave a particularly painful throb.

"Come now, you_ must_ have some theory of your own." His tone was apparently meant to sound coaxing, but sounded more threatening than anything.

I barely managed to bite back a sarcastic response, and answered slowly as my mind attempted to process what Cauldwell was implying. "You don't want me with Holmes…so I can't help him with this case?"

"Very close, but more specifically…" he trailed of and waited expectantly for my answer, like an annoyingly smug professor.

"I don't know!" I exclaimed, and immediately regretted my outburst; now I felt a little nauseous as well as exhausted and in pain.

"I don't want you with your _friend_—" he fairly spat the word in my face "—because I don't want you helping him with his emotions, which, I am sure, have been rather out of control of late." He grinned in a revoltingly self-satisfied manner, his eyes glinting with a venomous light. "No doubt your little, ahem, _visit_ here will drive him to further distraction." Still smirking, he took out a cigarette and match box.

"What do you want from Holmes?" I demanded furiously.

Cauldwell quirked a dark eyebrow as he lit a cigarette. "Come now. It would hardly be fair to tell you that. But has your good friend, the detective, told you what upset him in the first place?"

"It's none of your business whether he has or hasn't," I replied as calmly as I could, scowling when my voice shook.

"So he hasn't," Cauldwell said.

I said nothing.

"Loyal to the last, aren't you?" he said with mock admiration. "Somehow, I didn't think he would tell you. But wouldn't you like to know?"

"No," I said firmly. Even if I was curious, I had absolutely no interest in hearing anything about Holmes from this scoundrel.

"Nearly seven years ago, I was commissioned by Professor James Moriarty to commit a murder, in order to protect the Professor's position of power and plans to gain power, which, at that time, were in serious jeopardy."

I tried to ignore him, but his voice rang in my ears no matter how hard I tried to ignore him.

"A certain young lady came far too close to discovering the significance of a bit of information extremely valuable to the man in the centre of the web, to use your friend's quaint little phrase, and she had to be silenced."

I felt an overwhelming surge of revulsion and loathing for this man I had known for all but ten minutes, and he grinned, obviously enjoying the effect his speech was having on me.

"This young woman just so happened to be Mr. Holmes's younger sister."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven **

**_Watson_**

I gaped at him for a moment. "Holmes has a _sister_?"

"_Had_ a sister," Cauldwell corrected with far too much satisfaction. "As I said, she was far too dangerous to be left alive. With her help, the Holmes brothers might have been able to topple the Professor's entire empire, and we couldn't have allowed that to happen, now could we?"

I made no reply.

"I could not find the information she stole from me, and neither did the police. But even without this information, your friend Mr. Holmes and his puppets at Scotland Yard were able to bring about Moriarty's downfall."

I still didn't respond. In fact, I had barely heard a word he had said. My mind was still reeling with this new knowledge, but I was beginning to understand why my friend did not wish to talk about this. After all, I had known him for six years before he had told me he had a brother who lived practically within walking distance of our front door!

"Would you like to know how I did it?" he asked suddenly, a cruel glint in his eyes. His lips twisted into a crooked sneer.

"Beg pardon?" I asked, confused.

"How I killed her. How I murdered Jane Holmes."

"No!" I fairly shouted in his face despite the pounding of my head and the pain that shot through my arm as I accidentally pulled on it. I didn't think I had the willpower to listen to this monster tell me how he murdered_ anyone_, much less a sister of my dearest friend.

He stared at me for a moment, his expression hovering somewhere between mild surprise and disappointment. "Very well then," the man finally said, his voice as cold as ice. He stood up. "I shall leave you to yourself. Don't expect to see me again; I have better things to do than speak before an unappreciative audience."

"Wait a moment," I said, a half dozen questions suddenly bombarding my hazy mind.

He stopped just before he left my line of sight and turned slowly toward me, his expression betraying his irritation.

"So you only want me out of the way?" I asked. "Not for information, or to threaten or manipulate Holmes?"

A disturbing smile crept on to Cauldwell's face, causing my blood to run cold. "Certainly not the former, I can assure you. I am well aware that you know almost nothing of this matter." He paused. "However, the latter possibilities remain to be seen." With that, he swept from the room.

**_Holmes_**

After hastily assuring Mrs. Hudson that I now had a lead to follow, and that I would be careful and not forget my muffler (I have no idea how she manages to fuss over me so much while still worried sick about Watson), and shoving my pistol into my coat pocket, I left the flat still in my rumpled clothes. Such a thing as rumpled clothing was so trivial compared to the events of the day, that I found I did not mind nearly so much as I would have under normal circumstances.

I rattled down the street in the cab I had taken and I thanked heaven that my nap had allowed my brain to return to some semblance of order. Finally, I could think at least semi-lucidly—and just in time, for I would need my wits about me very soon.

I had not yet travelled two blocks when out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw a smallish person dart out of the group of idlers on the street and chase after my cab. A moment later, I heard a young voice frantically shouting, "Mr. 'Olmes! Mr. 'Olmes!"

I recognised the rather lanky boy shouting as one of my older Irregulars, Edwin, and ordered the cabman to stop the cab.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" called Ed. When he saw that he had indeed captured my attention, he continued in a much softer tone. "Oi 'eard that the Doctor 'ad been nabbed, and Wig sent out a couple o' the boys ta see if there was anythin' we could do to help!"

"Yes," I replied, nodding. "I was about to send for Wiggins. By the way, has all of London heard about Watson by now?"

"No, sir." The lad shook his head firmly. "Jus' Wig and the boys. We 'aven't been spreadin' the word 'round 'cause we didn't think you'd want that."

"You judged correctly," I replied curtly.

"What d' you need us to do?" he asked, with the air of a soldier asking for orders from a superiour officer.

I glanced around me for eavesdroppers, then leaned closer to the boy and lowered my voice. "There is a house I need you to watch this afternoon and evening, but you must not be noticed by anyone, and you must not tell anyone who might talk."

Tom nodded resolutely. "You can trust us, Mr. 'Olmes."

"If you see any unusual activity, or any sort of violence, I need you to get word to me at Baker Street—and if I am not there, tell my landlady—and to Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. I will be going to this house at four o'clock this afternoon, to find out what I can and hopefully form a plan to rescue the Doctor. You boys will be outside and ready to call the nearest constable should you see or hear any sort of violence. Stay on guard until I tell you otherwise. It will be twice—no, _three_ times the usual pay, as this job is at least three times as important."

The boy's eyes grew wide. "Cor! We won't let you down, sir!" He then added in an angrier tone, "Oi sure 'ope you catch those…" The street urchin let out a string of curses that would have put a sailor to shame.

I stared at him in astonishment for a moment, but soon a genuine smile—the first one that day—spread across my face. "Thank you, Ed. Now scarper."

The lad flashed me a crooked grin, and vanished into the hustle and bustle of the street.

In another twenty minutes, I found myself in Mycroft's office at Whitehall. He was reading a document of some sort, and making note of something in his usual illegible scrawl upon a sheet of foolscap on his desk. My rather loud entrance caused him to start, and splatter ink on the paper on which he had been writing.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed angrily upon discovering the identity of his intruder. After my elder brother's perspicacious eyes took in my appearance, his expression changed from exasperation to concern. "You went after him." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," I said. There was no need to clarify who "he" was.

"And as a result of this, the Doctor has been captured."

I nodded, my gaze falling to the floor. There was really nothing I could say.

"Sherlock," my elder brother said, more gently than I had heard him speak to me for several years, "this is precisely why I told you to stay out of this matter. Cauldwell is—as we both know only too well—an extremely dangerous individual with a talent for manipulating others for his own purposes."

"You suspected something like this would happen if I interfered?" I asked glumly, reluctantly meeting my brother's keen gaze.

"I was almost certain it would," Mycroft said grimly. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "It was foolish of me not to tell you my reasons. I ought to have known you would ignore me and investigate regardless. I must blame myself to at least a certain degree for what has occurred."

I shook my head. "No, the fault is mine, and mine alone. I should have known you would not have told me to leave the matter alone if there had not been good reason for it, and I then I allowed Watson to leave the flat unarmed this morning…" I shook my head again.

"You are falling into the Doctor's habit of telling your story the wrong way round," my brother said in an attempt to inject a little lightness into the tense conversation. "Please, sit down, and tell me what has occurred in the correct order."

I managed a small smile, and after shedding my coat and seating myself proceeded to give him the general outline of what had occurred, adding details where needed and answering questions when they were asked.

When I had reached the end of my narrative, Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "You intend to go to this address at four?" he asked.

I nodded. "What else can I do?"

"You do know that in all probability it will be a trap?" A deep worry crease formed on his broad forehead.

"Yes, but it seems to be the only reasonable course of action available to me at present. I am going armed, and several of my Irregulars will be stationed outside, prepared to fetch the police, if necessary."

"I am glad you at least have some semblance of a plan." Mycroft glanced at his watch. "It's nearing a quarter after three now; you had best be going."

I rose, and picked up my coat from where I had laid it on the back of my chair. "After I leave the house at Sheffield Terrace, and stop in at the Yard, I will visit you either at the Diogenes Club, or at your rooms, depending on when I return." Without waiting for any reply, I turned to leave.

"Sherlock," came my brother's voice from behind me.

"Yes?" I glanced back over my shoulder.

"Please be careful. Cauldwell is dangerous; you and I know that better than any other."

"More than 'any other' still alive," I retorted bitterly before I could stop myself.

Mycroft sighed. "That's all in the past now. Thinking about it will not do you—or anyone else—any good."

"I know." I nodded numbly. "And I shall be careful. For all our sakes."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

**_Watson_**

I employed the indeterminable period of time after Cauldwell left me in sitting quietly so as to rest my sore mind and body as best I could under the circumstances. Brown returned, but he was far less sociable, and sat in the chair opposite mine smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper.

We sat like this for quite some time—judging by the shifting of the rays of sunlight sifting through windows high on the walls—when I heard the sound of footsteps coming up behind me.

"Afternoon, Brown," said the first voice, which I recognised after a moment as belonging to Williams.

"Afternoon, Williams," replied Brown, looking up from his newspaper and nodding at Williams.

I attempted to turn a little in my chair to see behind me. Williams and Jefferson—whose nose was no longer bleeding—were approaching Mr. Brown and myself.

"Jeff and I are here to take this fellow off your hands," said Williams. He's wanted elsewhere at the moment." He turned to the red-headed man. "Jeff, untie his legs."

"Why should I?" asked Jefferson irritably.

Williams gave him a haughty look. "Just do as you're told—I'll be untying his arms."

Brown held up his hands in a gesture of defeat and stood up. "Pipe down you two, and _I'll_ untie his legs _and_ arms." He bent down to begin.

"You can lead him out to the cab this time as well, Brown," shot Williams over his shoulder as he walked out of my line of sight toward the door. "All you've done today is sit around reading that bloody paper of yours, while I was out nearly getting my legs broken by this gent." He gestured in my direction.

"You deserve to have them both broken. Twice," muttered Jefferson as he followed his companion.

Brown struggled with the rope binding my ankles for a minute, muttering, "Where in blazes did Williams learn how to tie a knot?" Finally, with a vociferous grunt, he managed to untie aforesaid rope, then started on my wrists, which he managed a bit more quickly. He helped me to my feet. He steadied me as my head grew light and I thought I might fall to the ground.

After helping me to put my coat back on, he blindfolded me, retied my wrists, and led me back out of the warehouse and into what I suspected was another four-wheeler, where I seemed to be joining both of my companions of earlier. As I climbed in, the side of my right thigh pushed part of my coat to the side of the cab, and I noticed an unfamiliar object in one of my pockets on that side. I had been picked clean, so to speak, after I had been attacked in the alleyway earlier, so the fact that there was any object was an anomaly. Based on the size, shape, and weight, I was sure that it was either a pocketknife, or something very similar to a pocketknife in those three respects. (I had carried a small knife in one of my pockets since my father decided I was old enough to do so safely, so I had a fair bit of experience recognising what having one in my pocket felt like.) As I seated myself, I wondered if for some unfathomable reason Brown, Williams, or Jefferson had put this object in my pocket.

We set off at a fairly rapid clip in I knew not which direction. I considered attempting to reach the object in my pocket to ascertain whether it was indeed a knife, but without my sight, I would not know if either of the two men were observing my actions as I did so.

However, a vague plan of action was beginning to form in my mind, and if it worked, then I would be free and on my way to safety in a matter of minutes.

**_Holmes_**

I stopped the hansom half a block away from my destination and walked the remaining distance. As I walked, I carefully examined everything—the pavement, the buildings, the loafers, drunks and street urchins—between the cab and my destination. I hoped that the rain of earlier would work in my favour, and wash away the things from previous days, leaving the clews for which I was searching. To my irritation, there was nothing of note for the entire distance leading up to house number seventeen.

The exterior of this house was identical to the dull houses around it: three floors of reddish and dun coloured brick, with four windows on each floor and five stairs leading up to a plain wooden front door.

After glancing about me one last time to make sure there was nothing I had missed, I checked my watch—I was a full five minutes early, this was probably the most unusual part of my day, I thought wryly—and rapped sharply on the door. It was opened by the maid, who showed me down the hall and into the comfortably furnished sitting room, where I took a seat in one of the chairs. I quietly slid my pistol under my chair. After all, Cauldwell would undoubtedly search me for weapons, and if it came down to it, I could duck behind the chair and have a means of defending myself.

Glancing around me, I instinctively began to deduce what I could about the man—it obviously was a man—who lived here. My mind was quite eager for the momentary distraction of something familiar and unemotional for which I had a natural aptitude.

Judging by the finely crafted furniture in the room, it belonged to a bachelor most likely between thirty and fifty years of age who was fairly well-to-do, and neat in his habits—or had a housekeeper who had tidied up before I arrived. The writing desk in a corner had quite a few papers with a legal look to them upon it, and a black briefcase leaning against one of the legs. Looking more closely at the desk, I saw that it was well-organised as well. He was a neat man, then. I recognised a painting as the work of a relatively well-known American artist, and there were a few others that were of a similar style that might have been his as well. He had an interest in art, America, or possibly both. I was just about to stand up in an attempt to get a closer look at one of the paintings, when the man who was the subject of my deductions entered the room.

He was a short, balding man of about five and forty with slightly rounded shoulders from bending over a desk, but the overall build of a man who had spent much of his life in manual labor. He crossed the room and held out his hand for me to shake.

"You're Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he asked with a Midwestern American accent.

I did not take his hand, but observed that it was slightly callused and had been more so in the past, and that the right elbow and left wrist of his coat were worn. Left-handed, then.

"I am," I replied. "You seem to have the advantage of me. You are…?"

The knees of his trousers were immaculate, as was the rest of his attire (which was all undoubtedly English) save a splash of mud on one shoe that I recognised as likely being from Commercial Street in the East End.

"Crawford," he said. "Wesley Crawford."

"You are the man who recently inherited the tobacco company on Commercial Street in the East End?" I asked.

He looked surprised. "You've heard of me?"

"No, I observed and deduced."

He stared at me for a long moment. "Well, I have heard of you and your parlour tricks, Mr. Holmes, but I never imagined that I would be the subject of one of them. Would you mind telling me how you came to your conclusion—which is entirely accurate, by the way; my late uncle left it to me after he died about a year and a half ago."

"If you tell me if I will be negotiating terms for Dr. Watson's release with you, or with Mr. Cauldwell."

"Answering a question with a question," he muttered to himself. "Mr. Cauldwell should be able to speak with you presently; he is only using my house as a temporary residence while he sorts out matters with the police and yourself. Now tell me, how _did_ you know who I was?"

I smiled; despite the gravity of my present situation, I could not help but take a little pleasure in Mr. Crawford's stunned reaction to my rather elementary deduction.

"Based on the calluses on your hands, your overall build, and your American accent, you used to do some sort of manual labor in America. Now your work involves a lot of writing, as evidenced by the smooth patches on the left forearm and right elbow of your coat, which also indicate that you are left-handed. Your furniture and clothing told me that you are rather well off monetarily. This, combined with the fact that you do quite a bit of writing for your job, informed me that you are in a high position in a business which earns a very steady income. The mud on the insole of your right boot I recognised as being from Commercial Street in the East End, where a part of the sidewalk is currently being replaced, and you would have had to walk through the mud left by this work to get to three or four buildings in that section of the street. Of these buildings, as I recall, there was no other building it was likely for someone with your income to operate. Have I explained myself thoroughly enough for you?"

The man stared for a moment or two. "But how did you know I had inherited it?"

"How else would a man doing manual labor in America end up in London running a tobacco-producing company?"

Crawford nodded slowly, apparently still processing what I had told him. "I'm impressed, Mr. Holmes. I never thought you were as good as rumor had it, but I see now that you are. I stand corrected."

As Crawford was speaking, we both heard a door open and close, followed by footsteps coming from a hallway apparently leading to a back door.

"That'll be Mr. Cauldwell," he said. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes."

I merely nodded to him by way of reply as we both turned our attention to the man approaching the sitting room.

I immediately recognised the dark-haired man when he entered. Cauldwell had not changed since I had last seen him five years ago—at the inquest into the murder of my sister. He was as pale and sinister-looking as ever, as he walked into the room with his usual aloof yet domineering manner. I noticed that one of his bootlaces was loose—he had been in a hurry or distracted earlier—and a splash of mud on his left foot indicated that he had been in a particular stretch of Church Street recently.

"Ah! Mr. Sherlock Holmes," he said, striding across the room to me and holding out his hand. "How very good to see you."

I said nothing and, ignoring his extended hand, I glared at him with all the venom I could muster. My brain registered that Cauldwell seemed to have spent a deal of time writing lately; but there was nothing unusual in that—he had returned to his pharmacy several weeks before my brother's near-poisoning, so far as I knew.

He gave me a look that might have been described as satisfied, but in reality looked more like a leer, and turned to Crawford.

"Did you check him for arms?"

Crawford shook his head.

Cauldwell glared at him, but without much venom. "What have you been doing? Having a nice, cosy chat were we?"

"Mr. Holmes deduced a few things, and I asked him to explain how he knew," Crawford replied indignantly.

For a second, Cauldwell's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and Crawford hastily shook his head, just as subtly.

"No harm done," Crawford added.

What had I missed? There was something Cauldwell was worried I had figured out, but what could it possibly be? Something that might have been deduced from Crawford's rooms or his person, apparently.

I pretended I hadn't noticed their exchange, but scrutinised the room, frantically searching for details I might have missed.

There were no portraits or photographs anywhere in the room, so if it was a person with whom Crawford was associated, I had nothing to go on there. Did it have something to do with the paintings, or perhaps the windows? Ceiling? Floor? Desk? Carpet? Or something else, something that I had overlooked entirely?

"Crawford, check him for weapons," said Cauldwell, drawing me out of my thoughts.

I stood up, and let him search me. Of course, he found nothing.

"Nothing," said Crawford, turning back to Cauldwell.

"Good, good," he said. "Crawford, you may leave us."

For a moment, Crawford looked as though he might object, but after a slight hesitation, he departed.

"So you would like to have your friend, Doctor Watson, returned to you?" asked Cauldwell with a slightly taunting smile as he turned toward me.

"That would be why I am here," I replied icily.

"Excellent, excellent," he said, gesturing for me to return to my seat. I did so. "Now, the Doctor should be on his way here now, in case you need any further, ahem, _persuasion_. He will be returned to you unharmed if you do exactly as I tell you."

"Go on," I replied, again wondering with a sinking feeling what he could possibly want from me. This proved it was more than just a mad vendetta against me; he had some definite goal in mind, and he either wanted or needed something I knew to accomplish it. As I had suspected, he was definitely only using Watson as a tool to get me into his power.

"Now," Cauldwell continued, his lips curling into a disturbing satisfied smile. "I need you to tell me everything you know about your sister's involvement—"

He stopped as we both heard the front door slam and footsteps pound up the stairs. A short and rather portly man with a shock of fiery red hair burst into the room, looking wild-eyed and winded.

"Mr. Cauldwell!" he exclaimed breathlessly. "Doctor Watson's escaped!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**_Watson_**

"Would you mind removing this blindfold?" I asked neither one in particular.

There was silence for a moment, then Jefferson, who was seated across from me again, said, "'E isn't goin' anywhere."

Williams considered for a moment. "Long as you don't try anything clever, Doctor, I think we could allow it. Jeff, take off his blindfold."

"Oi would rather not, if it's all the same to you," came Jefferson's indignant reply.

"It is not all the same to me. Just take it off him."

There was silence as the battle of wills continued.

Finally, a resigned sigh came from the other seat. "Fine, fine, Oi'll do it," said the Irishman angrily, and I felt him remove the blindfold. Thankfully, the man didn't touch the sore spot on the back of my head as he did so.

At first, I was aware of both men's eyes upon me, and didn't dare allow my gaze to fall anywhere near my coat pocket, but soon they returned to their staring out of the cab windows.

I thanked heaven that my coat was unbuttoned, thus placing my right pocket almost within reach of my hands, even though they were bound behind my back. I stretched my arms toward my goal, and bit back a gasp, as my left arm protested.

This was going to be harder than I thought.

Swallowing hard, I stretched again, this time getting a little farther before the pain filled my eyes with tears and caused me to inhale sharply through my teeth, causing a sharp hissing sound.

Williams glanced in my direction, but soon returned his gaze to the window.

Gritting my teeth, I stretched over one more time, and managed to brush my fingertips against the cold metal of what I assumed was the pocket knife, sliding it a couple of inches toward the opening, and let out a loud gasp.

Williams watched me suspiciously for a minute, but I drew attention away from my pocket by doubling over and coughing loudly.

I stared into my lap for what felt like an eternity, infinitely grateful that the object in my pocket wasn't visible. Finally, Williams returned to staring out of the window, and I felt safe enough to carefully reach for my pocket once again. I stretched out my fingers for the knife, my battered left arm screaming its protests…and _yes_!

I had it!

I carefully wrapped my hand around the small pocket knife—for now I knew for certain that it was a knife—and brought it behind my back. I attempted to pry out the blade, while trying not to draw attention to it as I did so.

So far, neither of the two men had noticed anything suspicious, but I couldn't count on this for long. I would need a distraction.

"Where are we going?" I asked as I finally got a firm grip on the blade and pulled it back.

Both men started and turned to face me. "You're not stupid, Doctor," said Williams, eyeing me strangely. "You know as well as I do that we can't tell you that."

All right then, maybe a slightly different approach, I thought as I adjusted my hold on the knife's handle, bringing the blade up toward the rope still binding my wrists together.

"How long will it take us to get there?" I asked.

"I don't know," Williams replied, obviously becoming irritated. "Jeff?"

As I began to quietly saw at the rope, the red-headed man opened his mouth to speak, but Williams held up his hand and cut him off. "Right, pawned the watch last week. Sorry, I'd forgotten." Then he added with a mocking sneer, "My _deepest_ condolences regarding the loss of your wife, my dear sir."

Jefferson flushed to the tips of his fiery hair and glared at Williams with such a glare of fury and hatred as I have rarely seen in a man as I worked feverishly at the rope on my wrists.

"One more comment about my wife and Oi will strike smug face with of yours 'ard enough that your great-grandfather will feel it!"

The blond man gave a short barking laugh. "Do you really think that I am intimidated by—"

He stopped as Jefferson lunged over top of me and at the man's throat, landing partially on my legs and causing me to slice my wrist on the small blade.

I swore loudly, but I doubt either of the two men noticed, and returned to my sawing of the rope as Williams attempted to pry the enraged Irishman's hands off his throat.

"Don't think I don't know who killed her," Jefferson snarled in a voice filled with loathing. "I know it was you, you monster! Don't think you'll get away with this. British law or no British law, you will die by my hand, Jacob Williams!"

I was shocked and horrified by what I heard but spent no time attempting to process it. All of my energy was focused on the simple task of freeing my hands, and I had gotten over halfway through the rope.

I heard a loud gasp and thud as Williams managed to get Jefferson's hands off his throat and pin him against the window, thereby removing the rest of Jefferson's weight from me.

"You can't prove it was me who killed her," Williams spat, "and if you kill me, you'll hang and leave your poor boy an orphan. Not that he would miss _you_ as a father, I'm sure."

Apparently, Williams was even less sagacious than he looked, for even the most amateur student of psychology or the most inexperienced fighter would know that making your opponent angry is not likely to work to your advantage in hand-to-hand combat. In a moment, Jefferson's hands were back around Williams's throat, and another moment, my hands were free!

I lunged for the door, yanked it open, jumped into the street, and as soon as I regained my balance, took off running as fast as my legs would carry me.

**_Holmes_**

"He _what_?" roared Cauldwell, springing to his feet and turning on the red-haired man who had entered. "Jefferson, this was not a difficult assignment! Two of you were to bring the Doctor here! Two! For one injured man!"

I leapt to my feet as well, torn between shock at Cauldwell's sudden outburst—never before had I seen him show so much emotion—relief that my Boswell had escaped, and fear and anger at the word "injured". Just how badly was he hurt? Would he be able get himself to safety?

"Who was with you?" Cauldwell demanded.

"Williams," the red-headed man gasped, still trying to regain his breath. "Brown walked 'im out, and Will and Oi were with 'im in the brougham." I noticed that he had a pronounced Irish lilt.

"Where are they now?" Cauldwell now seemed to be in control of his emotions, though I certainly was not. Said emotions—which had been plaguing me throughout the course of the day—now leant me the strength I needed for what I would have to do in the next few minutes. Without Watson, Cauldwell would have nothing to use against me in getting the information he wanted of me.

"Williams went after the Doctor, and I don't know where Brown is."

Cauldwell nodded, his usual insouciant manner now completely returned. "Report back to Rogers or directly to me when you have more information."

"Yessir," the man replied, and hurried from the room.

"Well," said Cauldwell, turning to me, "it seems that our little chat will have to be postponed, Mr. Holmes. However, we can't allow you to simply leave, or we'll have the police on our trail in a matter of minutes." Cauldwell's mouth twitched into something like a smile as he glanced at something over my shoulder. I heard the click of a gun cocking and felt the cold metal barrel against the back of my neck.

"I wouldn't move if I were you," came Crawford's voice from behind me.

I cursed inwardly but remained still. How had I allowed Crawford to sneak up on me in this fashion? He was far quieter than I had given him credit for being.

"Well done, Crawford. All of that hunting back in America seems to have paid off." He returned his gaze to me. "As I was saying, we cannot allow you to go after the police, but as I still require information of you, I can't kill you either. I am in a rather curious predicament, Mr. Holmes."

Cauldwell regarded me coolly, and I knew exactly what thoughts were running through his mind. He and Crawford could both leave, and risk being caught, but if he ran for it and left Crawford here with a gun on me, he could get away clean, even if his accomplice was caught. He valued his life more than Crawford's, or the information he was seeking.

Cauldwell glanced back at Crawford. "Come here."

Crawford stepped around me, and strode toward Cauldwell, his eyes and his weapon never leaving me for an instant.

"I'm going to see what I can do about recapturing Dr. Watson. Stay here with Mr. Holmes. Do not allow him to escape. You may wound him if you must, but not fatally. He must be kept alive, understood?"

"I've got it," he replied in his nonchalant American fashion, for a moment taking his eyes off me.

I took advantage of his momentary distraction to throw myself to the floor, dive behind the chair, and snatch up my pistol from beneath it. As I did so, a bullet whizzed past me and lodged itself in the wall where my leg had been a fraction of a second earlier. I swallowed hard, glad they could not see how unnerved I was.

"Mr. Holmes, I am not a child interested in playing hide-and-go-seek with you," came Cauldwell's annoyed voice. "Crawford is armed, and you are not. Come out before we are forced to harm you."

"I am afraid you are wrong on one point in that statement, Mr. Cauldwell," I replied coolly. "I am indeed armed." I shifted into a kneeling position and rested my wrist on the back of the chair, pistol aimed toward them.

"Crawford! How could you have possibly missed that?" Cauldwell demanded as I stood up and trained the gun on Cauldwell's head.

"I swear he did _not_ have that on him when I searched him," Crawford replied indignantly, glancing uncertainly between Cauldwell and myself, apparently unsure whether to continue aiming at me or not.

"If you gentlemen will excuse me, I am afraid that I have unfinished business elsewhere that needs my attention at present. If you allow me to leave unharmed, I will not harm you either. But if Crawford fires, I shoot Mr. Cauldwell here in the head."

Both men knew that even if I was a bad aim I could hardly miss by much from this distance. And I knew that Cauldwell wasn't willing to put his life on the line. We were at a stalemate.

"You may go, Mr. Holmes," Cauldwell said in a disturbingly calm voice. "But mark my words, we shall meet again soon enough, and next time neither you nor your precious biographer shall be so lucky."

I crossed the sitting room carefully, never allowing my eyes nor my weapon to leave Cauldwell's face, and decided against a scathing retort to his chilling statement—tempting though it was.

Upon exiting the building, I was immediately set upon by two of my Irregulars. The elder one I recognised as Ed, and I was reasonably certain the younger one—who had latched on to my legs—was called Henry.

"Mr. 'Olmes!" the younger one cried, and Ed pulled him back.

"Easy, 'Enry! Give the poor gen'leman a bit o' space!" He turned to me. "Are you all right, Mr. 'Olmes?" he asked in a tone of concern.

I nodded, and hastened to reassure them that I was indeed unhurt, and they informed me in their Cockney babble that there were boys going after the nearest constable, and that one of the boys who were better at "riding the cabs" (grabbing on to back of a hansom, and holding on until it stopped or the driver noticed) had gone after Lestrade.

I made a split second decision. Finding Watson was more important than speaking with Lestrade, for the time being.

"Ed, I need one of you to get as many boys as you can together and search for Watson. I don't know how injured he is—he might be all right or he might be unconscious. Whatever the case, I need him found and brought somewhere safe. Baker Street, the Yard, my brother's rooms, wherever's closest. When you find him, send someone to inform me immediately. I'll need someone else to stay here and inform Inspector Lestrade that Watson has escaped, but Cauldwell and his accomplices have gotten away as well, and that I am on my way back to Baker Street, but intend to walk so I can look for Watson on the way. Tell him that if he needs me, a telegram should reach me when I arrive which shan't be too long. And I need a few of you to continue to watch this building in shifts until I personally inform you otherwise. Understood?"

Both boys nodded, and Ed turned to the younger lad. "Oi'll talk to the Inspector and tell John and Al to stay here for a bit. You get the rest of the boys an' look for the Doctor." Henry nodded vigorously, and scampered off.

"Thank you Ed," I said, surprised to hear my voice sound so sincere. I set off for Baker Street, trying not to worry about Watson.

**_Watson_**

I ran through a maze of buildings and shops and people, having absolutely no idea where in London I was, only trying to put as much distance between myself and the brougham as I could. My body was extremely sore from both my injuries and being tied to a chair for the better part of the afternoon.

Only after my lungs began to burn and my breath came in dangerously short wheezing gasps did I slow down and duck into the shadow of an awning that appeared to be outside a public house. I doubled over, attempting to catch my breath. I looked about me for a street sign, but couldn't see one, and didn't recognise the area where I was.

After my breathing was under control enough to string a coherent sentence together, I approached a man who appeared to be the soberest in a group of loafers, and asked him where I was and for directions to Baker Street. As he looked me up and down with a slightly curious air, I realised that I was probably rather a sight. He made no comment on my appearance, however, and informed me in slurred Cockney that I was on Warwick Crescent, and pointed me in the general direction of Baker Street, adding a few particulars that I only half understood. After thanking the man, I set off again.

I passed an empty hansom as I headed toward home, and my muscles and lungs (and now my leg injured back in Afghanistan as well) begged me to give them rest, but I had no money with me. Absolutely none now: I had had a few odd coins on me before, but Cauldwell's men had confiscated everything that had been in my pockets. I noted curiously, however, that they had missed the handkerchief I kept in my sleeve. Hmm. Perhaps I should start keeping something useful in it.

I also noted that my pocket watch had been taken, so I do not know for certain how much time had passed, but perhaps half an hour or so later, I saw a ragged street urchin rushing toward me, and another following behind him.

"Doctor!" cried the first boy—whom I recognised as a lad called Jacob—as he rushed toward me. "Mr. 'Olmes had us lookin' for you!"

As Jacob finished speaking, the second boy skidded to a halt next to us, panting loudly. I recognised him as Jacob's younger brother, Tom.

"Oi saw 'em take you!" Tom said in a frightened but awed voice. "But then Jacob told me Mr. 'Olmes said yew'd got clean away, but 'e didn't know if you was hurt or not."

"You saw what happened when I was attacked in that alley earlier?" I asked. Poor lad!

He nodded vigorously. "You sure fought them good, before the man with the beard 'it you in the head with 'is stick. I went right to Mr. 'Olmes after Oi saw it, and 'e said Oi was _brave_." The boy glowed with pride.

The older lad punched his brother playfully on the arm. "You didn't need him to tell you that, Tom! We all know you're brave, don't we Doctor?"

I smiled down at the boy, who had indeed been quite brave on more than one occasion in Holmes's employment. "Yes, Tom, you are quite a brave lad."

The boy stared down at his feet. "Cor, thanks you two," he said bashfully. Then he looked up at his brother. "Are you gonna go tell Mr. 'Olmes, or am Oi?"

"Oi will," replied Jacob. "Oi run faster 'n you, so Oi'll find him faster."

Tom nodded seriously. "Oi'll stay with the Doctor till 'e gets back to Baker Street, then Oi'd better get back home."

"All right," replied Jacob, and he dashed back into the hustle and bustle of the street.

"Tell Holmes what?" I asked Tom as we set off again toward Baker Street.

"That we found you," Tom replied matter-of-factly. "'E's been lookin' for you, and 'e 'ad us lookin' for you too."

I nodded, unsure how to respond. I only hoped Holmes wasn't too worried about me.

We were relatively silent for the rest of the walk; save a few brief exchanges, we didn't speak at all. I suspected Tom had noticed my shortness of breath, as he tended to be rather talkative.

When we reached the front door of the flat, I thanked Tom for escorting me, and he hastened away toward his home.

After staring up at the familiar facade with a deep sense of relief at being back home, I stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind me, so as Mrs. Hudson would not hear it. I didn't want her to come down and see me in the state I was sure I was in; the poor woman had suffered through far too much of that sort of thing in the past, and I had no intention of putting any more of a strain upon her.

I leaned against the door for a minute, feeling safe within the walls of the flat, and possessing little motivation to brave the seventeen stairs to the sitting room, let alone the subsequent fifteen to my bedroom.

Just as I was taking a deep breath and preparing to make my way up the stairs, the door swung open behind me, sending me sprawling on to the hall mat. My first thought was that Mrs. Hudson was not going to be pleased about the carpet.

Then I heard the familiar voice of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

"What in blazes—_Watson_?"

As I groaned and attempted to drag myself to my feet, I felt Holmes's sinewy arms around me helping me upward.

"Afternoon, Holmes," I said, staggering backward as my head swam.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**_Holmes_**

After realising that it was Watson I had knocked to the ground upon opening the door, I confess to have nearly flown into a rather embarrassing display of hysterics. One of my Irregulars had informed me that Watson had arrived safely at our shared rooms, but I hadn't dreamed that I would open the door into him!

I helped my poor friend to his feet, noting the many injuries on his person, especially his left arm, which he held rather stiffly, the blood-smeared rope burns on both wrists.

"Afternoon, Holmes," he said, terrifying me by stumbling backwards toward the wall. I lunged forward to rescue him from a very painful encounter, and helped him steady himself.

"What on earth has happened to you?" I asked incredulously, looking him up and down.

Watson gave me a shaky smile. "It's a rather long story. Would you mind terribly if I cleaned myself up a bit first? You know, in case Mrs. Hudson sees me."

I cringed. "It would probably be for the best if you did clean yourself up a little."

Fifteen minutes later, after Watson finished tending to various injuries and I informed my landlady that he was all right (that conversation is something for which the world is not yet—nor shall it never be—prepared), and had her send telegrams to Lestrade and Mycroft, my friend and I sat smoking in our respective chairs before the fire, which Mrs. Hudson had lit because of the chill that was sweeping through the city.

"So what did happen to you?" I asked Watson again.

My friend sighed, reclined gingerly in his chair, and began to recount his tale. Several times during his narrative, I questioned him about various things he said, and several more times, I nearly threw something, such was my anger at these people who had harmed my dearest friend. When my remarkable Boswell recounted to me how he had escaped from the brougham, I was struck by the resourcefulness of his utilizing the animosity between his two captors as a distraction while he freed himself. Though I have said it so many times it is practically a cliché between the two of us, I never shall get his limits.

"Now I believe it is my turn to ask you what you've been up to," said Watson when he had finished, eyeing me with curiosity.

"I must warn you that it is not nearly as interesting as what you've been through today," I said.

"I certainly hope not," said Watson dryly.

I laughed outright at his pawky sense of humor, and he chuckled as well.

"Well, what have you been doing today?" he asked after our mirth had subsided.

I proceeded to tell him what had occurred since he left the flat this morning. He was silent throughout my entire account, and when I had finished, I asked him if there was anything he needed clarified.

Watson's brows knitted, and when he answered, he spoke slowly and deliberately, as if each word carried a heavy weight. "Not about what you have just said, but about something Cauldwell told me."

With a sinking heart, I gestured for him to go on.

"He said that you had a sister, and that he'd—well, he'd killed her." My friend's voice was gentle and apologetic.

I nodded slowly, suddenly not sure if I trusted myself to speak.

"My dear fellow, you could have told me," said Watson softly, staring into the fire rather than at me, a fact for which I was grateful.

I sighed, struggling to find the words I was looking for. "I know, but…"

My remarkable friend smiled sadly at me. "It's all right, Holmes. I understand."

I reflexively frowned slightly, chewing on the end of my pipe, which had gone out.

"Losing a sibling, I mean."

"Your brother?"

"Yes, my brother."

We were silent.

"You don't have to tell me any more," said Watson. "I know enough."

I shook my head and set down my unlit pipe. "No, you deserve the full and complete truth Watson, and I should have given it to you in the first place."

My friend waited patiently while I collected my thoughts. With a great effort, began my story.

"My sister, Jane, was two and a half years my junior, so I was always closer to her than to Mycroft. After my parents died—I was eleven, at the time—Mycroft got himself a job in London, and Jane and I went to stay with my maternal uncle in France, and that increased this relationship even more than the difference in age. After Jane and I grew up, we both moved to London as well, and managed to scrape together enough to share a flat on Montague St. She worked as a music teacher. She was a wonderful pianist, and could play the violin as well as me. Meanwhile, I was attending university, before starting my career as a consulting detective.

"Jane eventually accepted a job as a live-in music teacher for a family near Brighton, and I was left on my own. My consulting venture took off, and we went our separate ways. She lived her life, and I lived mine. We wrote occasionally, and barely ever saw each other. She moved back to London in '84, or maybe '85. I can't remember, but I know it was a few years before your marriage, Watson. I went round to visit her a few times, but not much more than that.

"Jane was always very curious, and when I first mentioned to her my suspicions about there being an organisation in the London underworld, she grew very interested, and wanted me to tell her everything I knew. She continued to badger me for any information I had, and expressed interest in helping with the case. Mycroft and I both made it quite clear to her that she was not to put herself at any risk against Moriarty.

"She agreed, but in retrospect, I do not think she had really given up, especially when in the autumn of '89 she suddenly started courting a chemist with a rather shady reputation, none other than Roderick Cauldwell. At the time, Mycroft and I did not know of his affiliation with the Professor, but we disapproved of her associating with the man. She disregarded everything we said, and continued to court him.

"Then toward the end of March in 1890, while I was solving a forgery case in the East End, I managed to capture one of Moriarty's higher-ups, and get a few names out of him, Cauldwell's being one of them. I was then sure that he was only associating himself with her to try to gain information about me, and what I was up to. I prayed she hadn't told him much, but I feared that she had. And if Cauldwell knew I was on to him, Jane would have no longer be of any use to him. This frightened me, for it could easily put her into considerable danger.

"I went to her, and we both decided that it would be best if we pretended that we did not have this information; after all, it was likely that no one knew the man I had interrogated had given me Cauldwell's name, as I had told no one but Mycroft and Jane. She admitted to me that she knew of Cauldwell's affiliation with Moriarty, and that was the reason she was courting him. We decided that she would pretend that nothing had happened, and she would break off the match in a couple of weeks.

"I was extremely worried about her during those few weeks, but she repeatedly assured me that Cauldwell suspected nothing, and that she 'could take care of herself', I believe was the phrase she used."

I swallowed hard, reluctant to go on. The first part had been easy, once I had begun talking, but the rest certainly would not be. Watson gave me an encouraging nod, and I began again, choosing my words slowly and deliberately.

"Then on the 20th of April, I received a telegram from Lestrade, telling me…telling me that someone had found her. Dead. She'd been stabbed through the heart with a knife, and—"

My voice cracked, and I paused for a moment.

"And had obviously been tortured as well. It happened in her flat, and I went there immediately. I would have investigated, but I was in no fit state to do so, and everyone there knew it. Cauldwell was naturally a suspect, but there was not enough evidence against him to do any good in a court of law.

"Cauldwell ran off, heaven only knows where, I suspect because he knew even if the law couldn't hold him accountable, the Holmes brothers wouldn't forget. We held a small funeral for my sister, and so it ended."

I swallowed again, feeling oddly lighter having shared my load with Watson.

My friend gave me a sympathetic smile, before quietly asking, "April 20th, you said?"

I nodded.

"So tomorrow would be the five year anniversary?"

"Yes," I replied with as little emotion in my voice and face as I could manage. This was not a topic upon which I would willingly dwell.

We were silent again, and I picked my pipe back up from the table next to me. Watson dug out his book of matches and handed it to me.

"Thank you," I mumbled as I struck one, meaning more than just the light.

And Watson knew, as he somehow always did.

"You are always very welcome, my dear fellow."

**_Watson_**

Holmes received replies to both of the telegrams he sent. Mycroft replied by way of another telegram, reading: GLAD TO HEAR YOU ARE BOTH ALL RIGHT STOP CONTACT ME WHEN NEW DEVELOPMENTS ARISE STOP MYCROFT STOP.

While we were eating our supper (or rather, while I ate and Holmes halfheartedly poked at his food), Lestrade came by the flat to inform us that he had not made any progress tracking down Cauldwell or Crawford, and also, to see how we both were faring. He only stayed for a few minutes before leaving again, saying that he had work awaiting him at the Yard.

After finishing our wonderful supper, we sat down beside the fireplace for a quiet pipe before bed. I noticed Holmes was staring into the fire with a peculiar light in his eyes that I had come to associate with a reckless desire to bring a case to the close as soon as possible, using whatever means necessary.

I doubted we were destined to have a peaceful night.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: A huge thank-you to everyone who has been reading this, and especially to those of you kind enough to take the time to review.**

**I'm sorry about the unusual delay in posting this chapter, so thanks for your patience. H****ere's the next installment...**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

**_Holmes_**

As I sat smoking with Watson, I gazed into the fire blazing in the grate, thinking of all that had occurred in the last three days. For that matter, the last _day_. Cauldwell had caused so much damage in so short a time, and it would have been so much worse, if it hadn't been for a small pocket knife and the grace of God.

This had to stop, and it had to stop _now_.

But what could I do? I had no idea where Cauldwell was, or what he wanted… No, I had some idea now. He had started to ask about my sister's "involvement" Her involvement in what? What had my sister been involved in that could have interested him? Of course! The Moriarty case. What else could it be? I had suspected for some time that my sister's untimely…_death_ (how I still loathed using that word regarding her, even mentally!) was related to Cauldwell's association with Moriarty.

But what did Cauldwell think _I_ could tell him? He had to know that she had kept the fact that she knew about Cauldwell's association with Moriarty from me, so what could it possibly be?

I felt like I had walked into a brick wall. I simply lacked information…I needed another approach.

What did I know about my sister that Cauldwell didn't? Well, that was hard to say, as she had courted him for nearly six months. Who knew what she confided in him and what she hadn't, especially if she was only trying to gain his trust in order to gain information from him?

A thought suddenly struck me.

If she had courted him in order to gain information, then where did that information go? Surely he had let _something_ slip during those six months? Jane knew, as I did, the importance of seemingly inconsequential details, so I would have thought she would have given me any information she had. Of course, I would have wanted to find out where she had acquired this information…so that would have been why she had said nothing to Mycroft or to myself.

Where, then, had she gone with this information? Whom did she trust? No one came to mind. She was far more social than Mycroft and myself (meaning not a total recluse by nature), still she had had no very close friends, so far as I knew. What would she have done with information about the Moriarty group if she had not given it to a friend, Mycroft, or myself? If she had gone directly to the Yard with it, surely _I_ would have been informed.

_Think!_ I had known my sister better than anyone else, what would she have done?

I stood up to grab a handful of shag tobacco from my Persian slipper, and shoved as much of it as would fit it into the bowl. Returning to my seat, I lit it.

Likely she had hidden this information somewhere. Where would she have hidden it? I supposed that she could have entrusted it to someone, perhaps not telling them what it was, but the whole idea seemed incongruous with her natural distrust of others. That really only left one place: her old rooms.

But where in her rooms would she have hidden this information, or documents, or whatever it was? And why hadn't it been found? Maybe it had been found, and she'd written it in some sort of code Cauldwell thought I could understand, and he had these documents, or it was. In that case, I could do nothing until he managed to get to me—which I would not allow to happen—or Cauldwell was behind bars, and possibly not even then.

Another question arose in my mind.

What could Cauldwell possibly want with information incriminating the Moriarty gang? If they directly incriminated him, then why didn't he simply destroy them? What did he want?

Another wall. I had more questions than I did answers, and the fact irritated me not a little. As Watson had quoted me in one of his stories, "I cannot make bricks without clay," and I certainly had very little clay at the moment.

Perhaps I should simply go to her flat and see what I could find. I knew the building had been abandoned for quite some time, so little would have changed, and there wouldn't be any current occupants to get in my way.

I hadn't mentioned it to Watson, but the elderly gentleman who owned the building had been murdered as well as my sister, and the maid and the other occupants had wanted nothing to do with the place after the brutal double-murder, and apparently neither had any potential buyers of the building for nearly two years, until an elderly man bought the building and died two weeks later. The combination of these things caused a local legend that the building was haunted, and no interested buyers were forthcoming.

As for Cauldwell, if he was smart—and I knew he was—he would lie low for a while and wait until the search for him died down.

I did not normally behave in the hopes that sheer, dumb luck would aid me, but I wasn't in this case either. An instinct that I had come to consider a sixth sense—and to trust with my life on several occasions—told me that I was on the right track, and that her old rooms were an important link in the chain that I was on my way to uncovering.

Yes, I would go to her flat, and I would go tonight. Alone. As dangerous as that might be, there was no way on this earth I was going to allow Watson to put himself in more danger on my behalf than he already had, the dear chap. I had come far too close to losing him today, and I was not going to allow that to happen.

**_Watson_**

I glanced up from the book I had been halfheartedly pursuing as Holmes—not entirely to my surprise—stood up and began preparing to go out.

"Where are you going?" I asked innocently.

"Out," he informed me.

I refrained from a comment about it not requiring a brilliant detective to deduce that fact, and instead asked, "Where, in particular?"

"Nowhere, really," he said, very carefully not meeting my eyes—almost a sure sign that he was either lying or dodging a question that had been put to him. My friend might be a skilled actor and proficient liar, but he very rarely had the heart to truly to truly deceive me. It seemed to me that in this case especially, he really did want to be found out.

"Holmes, I'm not stupid," I said, standing up. "Please have the decency not to treat me as such. I know that this has something to do with the case, and that you are refusing to tell me where you are going to avoid putting me into danger. But it won't work, because if there is any danger, you are _not_ going anywhere without me."

My friend stared at me in some surprise, his hat halfway to his head and his jaw hanging open for a moment before snapping it shut. Then, instead of growing angry as I thought he might, his expression softened. "Watson, this entire affair is _my_ problem, and I could not possibly expect to you put yourself into any more danger for my sake in an affair that has nothing to do with you." He put on his hat.

"If it has something to do with you, then it has something to do with me," I countered, taking three steps towards him. "That was always enough for you, when the boot was on the other foot, so to speak, and I had something I couldn't handle on my own. And in addition to that, just because you don't expect me to put myself into danger for you, doesn't mean I'm not going to do it."

Holmes glared at me, but there was more pain than anger behind his glinting grey eyes. "Watson, this is _my_ problem, and as much as I appreciate your intentions, I cannot allow you to come with me tonight, and that is final."

"It's nearly eight, far too late for you to be going anywhere, much less alone," I said, gesturing to the clock on the wall.

"You can hardly stop me, Watson."

"Really?" I challenged.

"Really," he responded firmly.

I folded my arms. "Well, you can't stop me from coming along."

Our juvenile exchange dragged on for a full five minutes before Holmes finally gave in.

"Fine!" he exclaimed exasperatedly, throwing his hands up into the air in a gesture of defeat. "Fine, you can come along! But don't expect me to be happy about it."

Whether I expected it or not, the quick smile he gave me as we settled into a cab prompted me to think that perhaps he appreciated my presence far more than he could or ever would admit.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

**_Holmes_**

Though I would never admit it to a soul, a selfish part of me was very glad to have Watson with me. As loath as I was to put my Boswell in any sort of danger, I was relieved that he did not allow me to do this alone, as I was not entirely sure that I could. I had not been to her rooms since a week after the investigation had finished, and then only for a few minutes to collect any of her things that I did not want sold. The only thing I had taken with me was a framed family photograph taken before our parents' deaths. I locked it in a drawer in my bedroom, and had not touched it since that day.

I gave my staunch companion a fleeting smile as we settled ourselves in the hansom, partly from sheer relief, and partly as my way of letting him know that he was appreciated. I think he understood.

In perhaps twenty minutes, we found ourselves standing outside the building, which looked rather what a man with Watson's romantic imagination would term "ghostly" in the moonlight. The tall brick building would have looked rather ominous even in broad daylight, what with the dark peeling paint on the door, and several boarded up windows, one of which had been smashed through, leaving a yawning opening into the blackness beyond. In strange contrast to our grim errand, I heard a group of drunken men, presumably near the public house down the street begin to treat any poor soul in the vicinity to a horrendously off-key rendition of some vaguely familiar old folk tune.

Ignoring the unpleasant serenade, I gazed up at the ominous house and took a deep breath. I was sure that this had to be done, but it was certainly not going to be easy.

Watson broke in on my thoughts.

**_Watson_**

"I assume this is our destination?" I said, staring uncertainly up at the very obviously abandoned building before us.

"Yes," Holmes succinctly replied.

"Do you suppose you could share with me the significance of this building, and why we had to come out here before morning?" I asked, only half hoping to get a straight answer.

"Well…I suppose I should tell you that this is where that fiend murdered my sister, and for a variety of reasons it has been abandoned since the crime," he answered, still gazing at the building before us.

I nodded, knowing not to expect any more information.

Holmes moved hesitantly to the door. I could see the reluctance in his unusually open expression, and the way he drew in a deep breath, as if to draw courage from the air around him, before stepping forward and opening the door.

It creaked on its hinges as it opened, adding to the eeriness of the whole situation. Here we were, two proper English gentlemen, entering a deserted house in the dead of night, just because Holmes had a feeling we would learn something here?! In addition, not only was this house uninhabited, the reason for its abandonment appeared to be the fact that a young lady had been brutally murdered here five years ago tomorrow. Not to mention the fact that this lady was none other than my dearest friend's sister!

Hardly cheerful thoughts.

The interior was dark, but there was enough moonlight for me to distinguish the walls with their peeling paper from the rest of the darkness, and with his superior vision, Holmes apparently had little or no difficulty seeing, as he had made no attempt to lift the panel hiding the light in the dark lantern he was carrying. He firmly grasped my wrist with his free hand, and led me down the pitch-dark hall and then up a flight of stairs that creaked and groaned loudly as we went, causing my heart to leap into my throat. I walked into a large cobweb, its disgusting sticky threads clinging to my face, much to my horror and disgust.

I was still attempting to extract the sticky threads from my moustache when as we passed a derelict door barely clinging to its hinges and entered a small sitting room, which would have been positively cramped, had there been furniture inside it. There was a little more light in here, due to the broken window which I had noticed from the street. I shivered from both the chill breeze that came through the window as well as out of nervous fear as Holmes paused. Unfortunately it was still too dark for me to see his expression, so I did not know the cause of his hesitation. I had very little time to ponder this, for an instant later he had turned left and we were moving again, this time nearer the wall than the centre of the room.

As my eyes continued to adjust to the lack of light, I realised that there was a gaping hole a foot wide and two feet long near the centre of the room. The floor around it appeared to be weak and ready to give out as well. It was fortunate that one of us had good night vision, or we would not have even realised there was a hole until it was too late.

Holmes's grip on my arm tightened almost painfully as we approached the corner of the room and turned right toward an open door that appeared to be in at least slightly better shape than the last one had been. I supposed that this had been Jane Holmes's bedroom. My friend leaned around the frame of the door, and peered into the room beyond.

A moment later, he led me onward into the room. The floorboards creaked beneath our feet, and thinking of the hole in the other room, I fervently prayed that they would not give out on us. Holmes slowly lifted the panel on his lantern so we could see the room more clearly.

As my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, I saw that it was a small bedroom, but by no means tiny, and it would have been a sufficient size for a young lady working as a music teacher. To describe the floor and walls, one need only picture rather worn wooden boards and old fashioned wallpaper which is beginning to peel off the walls. Cobwebs adorned every corner, in some places stretching across entire sections of wall. A door, presumably leading to a closet, stood across the room and closer to the far left corner of the room. There was only one window, on the wall to my right and closer to the other side of the room. No outside light could penetrate the window due to the boards and the thick layers of grime and filth. The only furniture in the room was a wooden desk in the corner to my right, which appeared to have been built into the wall itself, and to this Holmes was immediately drawn.

I did not know what my friend hoped or expected to find, but what I did not expect was to see him to give a small cry of surprise—and good heavens, was that _fear_?—and jerk his hand away from the wooden surface as if burned.

"Holmes?" I whispered, following him to the desk. It was then that I saw what my friend had already discovered. On the desk lay a small piece of paper.

A calling card.

With a shaking hand, Holmes picked up the card, which read _Roderick Cauldwell, Chemist_, and slowly turned it over. On the back, written in all capital letters, were the words: _I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU MR. HOLMES_.

I gasped audibly. Holmes swore under his breath as he threw it back onto the desk, his aquiline features looking even paler than usual, before he lowered the panel on the dark lantern and plunged the room back into nearly impenetrable darkness.

"He knew I was coming," Holmes whispered so softly that I barely caught the words, though his lips were barely an inch away from my ear. "We need to get out of here, while we still have half a chance." He grasped my uninjured arm, and was about to do just that, when we heard the sound of a door opening. I was confused for a moment, as we had not closed the door leading back to the sitting room, but my confusion was dispelled a moment later, when a figure standing in front of the now-open closet held his own dark lantern aloft in front of him.

Holmes and I blinked in the light, and I believe Holmes was considering making a break for it when the figure spoke.

"Do not bother attempting to escape, Mr. Holmes," came the all-too familiar voice of Roderick Cauldwell. "I am armed, and even if by some unhappy chance I were to miss you, I have men downstairs who will be only too willing to intercept you."

His words instantaneously immobilised my friend, and his grip tightened protectively on my arm.

"Now who is the child playing hide-and-go-seek?" he responded in a scornful tone, and I felt a sudden surge of pride that none of the fear that had been so apparent in my friend a moment ago was detectable in his voice now.

"I do not believe you are currently in a position to make demeaning jokes at my expense. I strongly recommend that you remain silent, for your friend's sake, if not your own." As he spoke, he walked slowly toward the desk, where he now set the lantern. "You see, revolvers are so very noisy, and I have yet to acquire one of Von Herder's air guns, so I tend to adopt rather more…_primitive_ means." He extracted a longish dagger from a coat pocket and laid it on the desk, giving my friend a meaningful look.

"You shall not lay a hand on Watson," came Holmes's voice, now quivering with rage as he adjusted his position so he was standing protectively between Cauldwell and myself.

"If you do as I say, I shall not have to," was Cauldwell's reply, his soulless eyes shining malevolently as he smiled, causing the long scar on the side of his face to contort his features. "And as for being the monster in the closet, I did not have to wait there long. You see, I had a wonderful alarm system arranged. When a cab arrived at this house with either one or two men—yes, I suspected you would bring the Doctor with you—several men at the public house over yonder were to begin singing at the top of their voices as a signal that you were coming. I then secreted myself in this closet, as I knew you would come here, and had a couple of other men hide themselves in various locations around the house."

"I do not deny that your plan was a good one," said my friend icily. "I never for an instant suspected that you would anticipate my arrival."

Cauldwell smiled, the effect even more bone chilling than before. "I am surprised that you did not notice that the dust had been disturbed. I thought that perhaps you might, and so stationed a couple of men outside to halt any escape. I am glad that my precautions proved unnecessary, as I believe my little calling card was rather more dramatic than discovering footprints in the dust, don't you think?"

I was beginning to see that despite his largely emotionless personality, Roderick Cauldwell had a certain love for the dramatic, even as my friend did. That would certainly explain the use of the calling cards rather than some simpler—and less theatrical—means.

Holmes asked, "Where did you have your other men stationed? I did not notice them."

"Two were across the street, one was in the alley nearby, two were by the back door in the kitchen, and I had one stationed upstairs in case you decided to go there. And I paid several men at the pub down the street," he added as an afterthought. "Excuse me for a moment," he said abruptly, picking up his lantern and striding over to the window, which faced toward the back of the house. He held it there for a second, then closed it and opened it again, closing it more quickly this time. Almost immediately, a song I soon recognised as "The Rocky Road to Dublin" started up from where I presumed the public house was located.

"Quite an original method of signaling your men to return, Mr. Cauldwell," said Holmes dryly. I noticed that the hand still on my arm was quivering with either fear, anger, or because of the draft coming in through the window. Or perhaps it was a combination of the three.

"Quite," the man agreed. "But I do not believe we are here to discuss my originality as a criminal. No, we are here on another errand, and I believe that we both seek the same thing."

If I hadn't felt like useless baggage before Cauldwell's use of the word "both", I undoubtedly did now.

"Which is?" Holmes asked.

"Information," said Cauldwell simply.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

**_Holmes_**

"Information."

Cauldwell and I stood as still as statues for a moment, sizing each other up. I realised that I was still clinging to Watson's arm like a drowning man to a life preserver and loosened my grip enough that I would not restrict the blood flow to his hand.

I heard approaching footsteps coming from the stairs behind us.

"We have company," Cauldwell informed me.

I decided against a scathing retort, and instead turned toward the door when the owners of the footsteps entered the room. Crawford was the first, followed closely by the man with pale blond hair that I had seen keeping an eye on our flat in Baker Street earlier, though now he sported an angry purple bruise above his right eye and a second bruise on the jaw. A man with a gangly figure and light brown hair that I didn't recognise soon followed, along with a large man with a massive black beard—that I was sure was the man Tom the Irregular had described to me—a clean-shaven man with sandy hair and bushy eyebrows drawn low over his eyes and the red-headed man I had seen at Crawford's rooms.

"You need six men?" asked my Boswell with a voice in which incredulity and amusement were equally apparent.

"I don't take chances, Dr. Watson," he said, fastening his cold eyes on my friend. The truth of his words and the fact that Cauldwell was standing precisely where he would have stood when he killed my sister struck me like a blow, and I shuddered. "Now if you two will please hand over your lantern and any arms to Mr. Crawford here; I do not want any foolish acts of heroism to hinder my plans."

Watson glanced at me and I gave a slight nod. He handed his old service revolver and I my pistol to the man Crawford, who emptied them and set them both on the desk. They certainly were not taking any chances.

"Hand over your coats as well," said Crawford. "I don't want to find out you have any tricks up your sleeves, figuratively or literally." We complied, and I shivered again from the cooler air.

Cauldwell turned to his men. "Rogers, I need two men outside to keep an eye out for any unusual movements, and one downstairs. I want two men outside the door. You go to the front door and have the others report anything of importance to you, and you report anything of importance to me."

Rogers nodded. "Jefferson, Shenston, you're on the street, one of you report any suspicious movements and the other stays behind. If you're seen, act drunk or lost, or drunk _and_ lost. Crawford, you're down by the back door this time. Brown, Williams, you two guard this door here, and make sure you mind the hole in the floor. As Mr. Cauldwell said, I will be by the front door if there is anything to report." All of them gave various affirmations and left the room, and at Cauldwell's indication, Rogers closed the door behind them.

"I would offer you a seat," said Cauldwell, turning toward us, "but unfortunately all of the furniture was removed five years ago—well, most of the furniture," he amended, gesturing toward the desk.

"So I see," I replied dryly. "Now, would you like to tell me what it is you want, or do you intend to keep me guessing?"

Cauldwell smiled again, causing the knot of uneasiness in the pit of my stomach to tighten. "I need you to answer a few questions for me, that is all."

"If you would be so kind as to tell me what these questions are, I will do my utmost to answer them," I replied, the treacherous words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. I inwardly cursed myself for being such a fool as to be caught in this trap.

Cauldwell paused for a moment, either to gather his thoughts or dramatically draw out the moment.

"Tell me what you know about Jane's involvement in the Moriarty case."

I frowned. Well, I hadn't completely lost my mind; I had suspected this was what he would want to know. "I honestly know very little. She told me almost nothing about what she was doing, and I told her nothing regarding the case that would put her in danger."

Cauldwell nodded as if this was what he had expected to hear. "I suspected as much. But there is something else as well. There is a letter I need you to read, and I need you find something for me."

"What do you need me to find for you?" I asked, once again wondering what on earth could be the goal of this mad scheme.

"The letter will explain," he said pulling a folded sheet of paper out of an inside pocket in his coat. I noticed with disgust as he unfolded said paper that there were brownish stains, presumably from blood on it. He handed it to me, still folded in half.

I unfolded the letter, and with a jolt recognised the messy feminine script unique to my late sister. I stared at the missive with blank astonishment for a moment, hardly noticing my knees quake beneath me. Practically without my noticing it, Watson helped me into a sitting position against the wall before my legs gave out completely.

I glanced in his direction as he sat down next to me, intending to thank him, but when I saw the unspoken question in his eyes, I realised that he didn't know what had upset me.

"It was written by my sister," I said quietly.

Cauldwell gave a bark of hollow laughter, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. "Even I could have deduced that."

If looks could kill, the loathsome blackguard would have been dead on the spot. "I was not speaking to you," I retorted coldly.

"So I see," he replied coolly. "But I do not have all night; please read the letter."

I turned my attention to the letter, tilting it so that Watson and I could both read it by the light of Cauldwell's lantern.

_Dear Sherlock and Mycroft,_

_If you are reading this letter, then either I am no longer in the land of the living or you have stumbled upon this message by mistake. If the latter is accurate, if you ever loved me, stop reading now and forget you ever saw this paper. All will be revealed to you in good time, and knowing this will help no one._

_Unfortunately, it is far more likely that Mr. Cauldwell has killed me. Let it be known that I did not die in vain. I have found some valuable information which will help you in your quest to triumph over Professor Moriarty and his empire._

_Sherlock, you already know how it was I came to meet and court Roderick, but if Mycroft does not, please do me the courtesy of explaining for me. Both of you please forgive my not explaining everything to you before, but you know as well as I do that you would have told me it was far too dangerous a game for me to play, and I was not to be dissuaded. Not even now, when the cost has been my life._

_I wasn't able to gather much information from him, but what I did gather, I passed to Inspector Patterson by a very trustworthy person who wishes to remain anonymous. I also managed to feed Roderick false information on several occasions, and spoilt several of the operations he was involved in without anyone ever suspecting that I was the reason they failed._

_Then this morning, I went to visit him in his medicine shop, and found that he was out. The maid cleaning there let me in—as she knew who I was—and I carefully scoured Roderick's office (without the girl's knowledge, of course) for any information that might be beneficial to our cause against Moriarty's empire._

_At the bottom of one of the drawers, I discovered a document listing the names of those in the Professor's employ, those he wanted to recruit, those who had betrayed him, and those who stood in his way. After making sure that all in his office was as it had been before I had come, I took the document back to my rooms, intending to copy it and return the original if he was still away, or come back and return it in the night, as I had made a duplicate of the key to his shop. To my horror, not half an hour after I had reached my rooms, I received a telegram from Mr. Cauldwell telling me that he had missed the document and knew that I must have it in my possession._

_I knew then that my own game was up, and I hid the document and my partially-completed copy where I knew it would be safe from him, but it is likely that there will come a time when this information will be useful to you and all involved in the struggle against the Moriarty gang, and though I intend to flee as soon as these words are penned, I doubt I shall have the time to do so. It is for this reason, I leave this letter in hopes that you, Sherlock, remember 15 144 48 26 78._

_Regards, your devoted sister, Jane E. Holmes._

I stared at the missive in shocked silence, my mind reeling with this new information. And what in God's name did those numbers mean? What was I supposed to remember?

I looked back up at Cauldwell, who stood with a hand resting on the desk, his face as impassive as ever.

"Well?" he asked when he saw that I was looking at him. "Have you figured it out?"

I shook my head numbly. "I am afraid that I have no idea what those numbers mean. She must have thought I'd remember something that I haven't. I have not a clew."

Cauldwell raised his eyebrows. "Pray forgive me if I do not believe you, Mr. Holmes." He slowly stretched out a pale hand and lifted the knife off the desk as he spoke, and my heart began to pound in my chest as though trying to escape.

"I swear, I don't know!" I exclaimed in a voice near desperation. "You must believe me. I—I haven't the foggiest idea what she was talking about. Give me a minute to think. Perhaps I'll remember!"

Cauldwell sighed, running a finger carefully along the blade of the dagger. "My time is of value, Mr. Holmes, and I trust yours is as well. You have one minute."

One minute.

My head pounded and my mind raced in a thousand directions as I attempted to arrange my thoughts. What were those numbers, and what were they supposed to mean to me? Did they have something to do with something else in the message, some sort of hidden cypher? Jane had always been good a cyphers, and hidden codes. Did the numbers correspond to words in the message? The fifteenth word was word "land", but if I counted the salutation, it was "no". Neither seemed very promising.

Perhaps it wasn't a cypher, but something from long ago that she thought I would remember? What did we do with numbers? Well, we both had an aptitude for mathematics, but how would that…

Wait.

My sudden realisation must have shown upon my features, for at that moment Cauldwell's voice broke in on my thoughts.

"Ah! Remembered, have you?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied slowly after a moment's hesitation, already feeling like a traitorous blackguard.

"Let us hear it then. What do the numbers mean?"

"It was a sort of game my sister and I played when we were children," I said, feeling rather ridiculous as I said it. "One of us would hide something from the other, and give them five numbers, and then they would have to find the object."

"Then where are the papers?" he asked with some impatience. "You knew how Jane thought; now where are they?"

"Give me a moment!" I said, holding up a hand and went on for Watson's benefit; Cauldwell evidently did not care how I found the papers as long as I did so. "The numbers would have several factors in common, and of the three biggest factors, one would stand for the room the object was in, and the other two would be coordinates by feet within the room, staring in the southwest corner."

"But how would you know which number was which?" Watson asked as Cauldwell checked his pocket watch.

"Logic, or process of elimination," I replied. "Whichever works more quickly."

"So what are the three common factors between those numbers?" asked Watson, pointing.

I stared down at the numbers, my mind working faster than I could process. Normally I would welcome such a challenge, elementary though it was, but having my life—and more importantly the life of my dearest friend—in the balance made the thing less like an intellectual treat and more like a nightmare.

15, 144, 48, 26, and 78.

All of them were divisible by 2 but 15, and all of them by 3 but 26, so that ruled out any multiples of either number, narrowing my search considerably. Too much so, actually.

I ran it through my head again.

There were absolutely, positively no factors at all in common between all five numbers.

I shook my head numbly and turned to look at my faithful Boswell. "There are none."

"None at all?" Watson asked, surprise written upon his open features.

"Well, nothing but one, and one doesn't count!" I replied, staring back down at the paper, as though the intensity of my gaze alone would force the paper to divulge the meaning of those numbers. If they meant something else entirely, then I was entirely at a loss for what to do, but something told me I was on the right track.

Think!

"Mr. Holmes, my patience is wearing thin. Either you understand the clew, or you don't. Which is it?"

"I…give me more time, will you?"

"I have already given you more time than my better judgment would have me do. I truly regret harming either of you, but I will do what is necessary. Dr. Watson, if you will come here please."

I threw out my arm protectively in front of my dear friend and stalwart companion. "I know I'll figure it out," I lied. "Just give me more time!"

"You have had your time. Perhaps a bit of persuasion will help you think faster. Come here, Dr. Watson, or I'll cut Mr. Holmes's throat."

"Don't do it, Watson," I replied. "He's bluffing; he needs me alive to figure out where the papers are."

"I assure you that I am not bluffing. I know that the papers must be in this room, as Jane would not have had time to conceal them anywhere else in the house. I suppose could tear out all of the walls, ceiling and floor, but that would take a deucedly long time, and I have greater plans for my valuable time."

With a half-apologetic and half-fearful glance, my friend nudged my arm aside and rising to his feet, walked slowly but assuredly toward Cauldwell.

"I understand that you are a doctor," he said, looking Watson up and down. Cauldwell was slightly taller, but my friend's military posture made them appear to be about the same height. "It would be a shame to harm your hands or your eyes. Perhaps an ear, then?"

He turned to me once more.

"Thirty seconds, and the Doctor loses an ear," said Cauldwell coldly. "Another thirty, and he loses the other."

Watson turned to look at me, and gave me a steady, reassuring stare. Bless the man, he was still concerned for my well-being, despite the fact that he was the one about to be maimed.

My mind whirled at a feverish pace, dredging up childhood memories, long forgotten, as I offered up a rare and panicked prayer for guidance from a God I had neglected for far too long.

"Halfway there, Mr. Holmes." Cauldwell's voice broke into my thoughts.

Suddenly a memory danced to the forefront of my mind, and I instinctively knew I had hit upon the answer.

_A dark haired boy of nine stared down at the numbers with a scowl of frustration. Why was there nothing in common?_

_A girlish giggle came from a doorway behind him, and he turned his glower upon his sister._

_"You made it so there's no answer, didn't you?" he demanded, waving the paper in her face._

_"Maybe," she replied impishly, grinning widely at him as she stepped into the hall._

_"So where is it?"_

_"Where's what?" she inquired cheerfully._

_"My new dictionary, of course!"_

_Her smile widened. "There's a place in the wall beside my bed where the paper peels back, and there's a perfect hiding place there. I would have led you to it, but this seemed more fun. Come on, I'll show you."_

"Five seconds."

"Wait!" I exclaimed as Cauldwell's voice snapped me out of my reverie. "Wait, I've got it!"

"I certainly hope so, for all our sakes," he replied icily. "Can you get them?"

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, weighing the consequences of my answer in my mind. If I led him to the papers, anything my sister had worked and died to accomplish would be undone, but Watson would remain unharmed. If I refused to find them for him, or deceived him in some way, neither of us would escape unscathed, but Watson would undoubtedly be on the receiving end of the harshest treatment; Cauldwell knew that Watson's life and safety meant more to me than my own. Far more, in fact.

"Yes," I answered in a shamed whisper.

I had little doubt that this was what selling one's soul to the devil would feel like.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

**_Watson_**

With an air of shamed resignation, Holmes crossed the room and ran his hands along the faded, peeling paper near the floor beneath the window, and continued until he reached a place near the corner where he grabbed part of the paper. He pulled on it. The paper peeled away easily, as though this had happened to it before, revealing what appeared to be a largish jewelry box secreted between the inside and outside walls. My friend carefully took it out, brushed some of the dust off and opened it, revealing—

Nothing. The box was empty!

Holmes gasped audibly. Cauldwell swore.

"I thought you knew what you were doing!" exclaimed Cauldwell through gritted teeth.

"I—I don't…I thought I did too," Holmes muttered, glancing up at Cauldwell. My friend blanched. I could not see Cauldwell's face, as he was standing behind me, but judging by my friend's reaction, I have no doubt it was terrifying to behold.

Without warning, a flash of silver entered my vision and fled as quickly as it came, leaving behind a sudden flash of pain and a warm, sticky substance on my right cheek.

"Watson!" Holmes cried, rushing toward me, his eyes more openly fearful than they had been all evening.

"Find the papers, or next time it will be his throat," came Cauldwell's dangerously calm voice from behind me. "Find them. Find them _now_!"

I hardly noticed the stinging of my bleeding cheek, so focused was I upon my friend. He swallowed, his gaze moving from Cauldwell, to me—I gave him the most reassuring look I could muster—to the box, to the wall, and suddenly back to the box. He lifted it to eye level and stared intently at the outside, then lowered it and looked inside it, giving a sudden hysterical laugh of relief in a far higher pitch that was normal for him.

"It's a false bottom!" he exclaimed, and turned the box upside down. He shook it, but the false bottom did not budge. My friend attempted to pry it out with his fingernails, but was still unsuccessful.

I felt something cold brush against my shoulder; Cauldwell was wiping the blade of the knife on my waistcoat. I flinched in surprise, disgust, and—yes, I admit it—fear. "Come here and I'll pry it out," said Cauldwell, and he stepped forward with the knife. Holmes stepped toward Cauldwell, and held the box out to him. Cauldwell quickly managed to pry out the bottom with the aid of the knife, revealing several leaves of paper folded into each other and tied tightly together with a length of brown twine. These Holmes took out, and placed in Cauldwell's empty hand.

"Thank you," said Cauldwell in a very serious businesslike tone. "Now, I'm sure you are both wondering why I would go to such lengths to retrieve a few sheets of paper containing information valuable to the late Professor Moriarty." He paused, waiting for an affirmation. Holmes and I nodded slowly. "You see, these papers are more than they seem to be. They will soon be the key to achieving more power than I ever could have dreamed of possessing before I realised the true potential of the information contained within them. Even before Moriarty's death, I had been slowly planning my own rise to power in his ranks. Many of the others were as well, I know, but none of them had my patience, tenacity, or my brilliance. I do not think he suspected for a moment that I was anything but loyal. All the while I was plotting his downfall, and how I could put myself into a position to replace him, and wield even greater power and influence.

As Cauldwell spoke, he paced back in forth before us, as though lecturing students.

"I learned that you were plotting his downfall too, Mr. Holmes, and Moriarty had heard of your reputation as a brilliant detective. When I did some of my own research, I realised that you had a sister, and soon decided to use her to my advantage, as you discovered later. Little did I know that all the while that sneaking girl was on to me the entire time. In the end I gained little from her, and to top it all off, she stole these papers from me. Moriarty had entrusted them to me for safekeeping. I was forced to kill her when she would not tell me where they were, and threatened to turn me in to the police for all the crimes for which she had gathered proof of my involvement." He paused for a moment. Holmes and I remained silent, and he went on.

"After this, I fled the country and stayed in America for some time, where I first made my acquaintance with Mr. Crawford, whom you have both met. I heard of your defeat of Moriarty, and then of your own death, Mr. Holmes. I longed to return to England in hopes of picking up where Moriarty had left off. To my dismay, your trial of a century, as it was referred to by many, had taken care of nearly all of Moriarty's best men. But then I remembered these papers, and realised that perhaps there was something there that could help me reform Moriarty's great empire. Many things have hindered my being able to find it, primarily the lack of funds to return to England from America in the first place, though Crawford's inheritance allowed me to return several weeks ago.

"So I waited for an opportunity, and suddenly you shocked the world by revealing that you did not in fact perish at the Reichenbach Falls, but were still alive. I knew I could use you to get to the papers, once I was back in England. And I was reasonably certain that using the Doctor would be the most effective way of convincing you to help me. And so it was. Now, I believe, you know all. Or all that I am willing to tell you, at any rate," he amended with a small satisfied smile.

Cauldwell paused, letting it all sink in for a moment or two, before he began to speak again. "Now, we all know that I do not take unnecessary risks, and it is rapidly becoming apparent to me that you two are both more liabilities than assets to me. Now that I have these papers, I no longer need either of you, but you know too much for me to allow you to walk free."

"You're going to kill us," said Holmes flatly.

Cauldwell smiled at him, his dark eyes glinting with malice. "Excellent deduction, Mr. Holmes," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I can see now why the Doctor holds you in such high esteem."

I felt a surge of terror and fury at this man welling up within me, supplemented by a rush of adrenaline. We were going to die, unless one or both of us did some very quick thinking, and judging by my friend's dead-looking eyes and shaking hands, he would not be the one to do so. I swallowed hard. Escaping impossible situations was Holmes's area of expertise, not mine.

Which meant that I needed to think like him. Logically.

What were our assets? Holmes and I were both still physically capable, aside from my left arm, there were two of us and one of Cauldwell, who did not appear to be nearly as physically fit as my friend. Liabilities? Cauldwell had three guns, a knife, the papers that Holmes's late sister had died to gain, and six henchmen. The odds were not in our favour.

Cauldwell's voice broke into my whirling thoughts. "Dr. Watson, have you any last words?"

My mind went blank. I looked at Holmes standing beside me, his eyes wide and openly terrified. Was this really how it was going to end?

"No?" said Cauldwell, cocking an eyebrow. "How very unfortunate. Based on what I've heard, you can be quite eloquent when you put your mind to it." He levelled the knife at my chest. "Goodbye, Doctor Watson."

Instinct screamed at me to move, to run, to stay alive, but my legs refused to function and instead I stayed rooted to the spot, as firmly as if I had been nailed there.

We were going to die.

**_Holmes_**

I watched in horror as Cauldwell pointed the knife at Watson's chest. I could not watch it happen. I could not allow it to happen.

Acting on sheer instinct rather than logic or reason, I sprang between Watson and Cauldwell, tackling Cauldwell to the floor. I felt a blinding flash of pain and warm blood on my right shoulder as we fell, Cauldwell hitting his head on the desk with a loud thud and falling limply to the floor, I on top of him. I cried out in pain—the knife was stuck in my shoulder and my shirt and jacket were quickly becoming soaked in blood.

"Holmes!" I heard Watson exclaim, rushing to my side as I struggled into a kneeling position, clutching my shoulder in agony.

"Watson," I said with an effort, as tears began to stream down my cheeks and my shoulder seared with pain. "Watson, it's stuck."

"Yes, I see that. Don't try to talk now, my dear fellow. I'm going to have to take it out. Here, let's get your back to this wall," he said in his best soothing doctor voice, half leading and half dragging me as I scooted across the few feet between myself and the wall next to the desk, my vision blurring from more than tears as I did so.

I leaned gingerly against the wall, biting my lips stop myself from screaming out in pain. Watson gently moved my trembling, blood-covered hands away from my injured shoulder. "Hold still," he said. I closed my eyes and clenched my jaw and felt Watson carefully pull the knife out of my shoulder. I cried out again.

"There. It's out now," he said. "Now I'm going to put some pressure on the shoulder to staunch the bleeding, all right?"

I nodded, still keeping my eyes squeezed tightly shut and vaguely wondering why none of Cauldwell's henchmen were coming to see what all the commotion up here was about. But they probably weren't surprised to hear pain-filled cries, I supposed. The thought made me feel even more ill than I already did.

A sudden thought struck me and my eyes flew open. "Cauldwell…is he…?"

Watson shook his head, tearing off a strip of his shirt. "I don't know. I'm going to put some pressure on your shoulder now."

I nodded, clenching my jaw once more, not trusting myself to speak. As Watson began to apply pressure to the injury, my shoulder seared with unbearable pain, and the room and his anxious face blurred and a blackness began to encroach around the edges of my field of vision. It took a moment to register that the tortured moan I heard had escaped from my own lips.

As much as I wanted the pain to stop, I forced myself to stay conscious; I could not afford to leave Watson to try to escape and carry me with him, and I knew he would never leave me.

I gritted my teeth as he wrapped strips of his shirt and mine around my injury, slowly forming a makeshift bandage and tourniquet. My arm went numb as he did so, but thankfully this dulled the pain.

After my medical friend completed this task, he strode across the room to Cauldwell's side, and checked for a pulse.

"He's alive," said Watson. "We need to get out of here." His brow furrowed as he attempted to determine how this was to be accomplished. My friend rose to his feet, and crossed to boarded window. He shook his head, muttering, "That's no good—it would take all night to saw through these boards with a knife, and no doubt it's a sheer drop to the pavement anyway." He turned back towards me. "Our only choice is to take on the two guards outside the door and improvise from there." He picked up my pistol from the desk and reloaded it. "Do you think you can stand?"

I nodded, even though I was not at all sure that I could.

"Good." He nodded grimly, his jaw set, and reloaded his own revolver, then removed Cauldwell's from his pocket and put it in his own, along with the papers from the wall. With a grimace, I put my left hand behind me and attempted to push myself into a straighter sitting position. The attempt was largely unsuccessful and resulted in an embarrassing whimper, which immediately arrested Watson's attention and he rushed to my side. Though my eyes were squeezed tightly shut, I could feel his keen hazel eyes fixed on my face.

"Don't try to get up by yourself; I'll help you in a minute." He was fighting to remain calm, I could see it, but his voice betrayed his anxiousness.

I nodded, my head swimming, and after several seconds I once again forced open my eyes. Watson was standing before me, holding at arm's length Cauldwell's knife, now dark with blood. My blood. And possibly some of Watson's as well, I thought glancing at the dark blood drying on the side of my friend's cheek and jaw.

"What shall we do with this, I wonder?" he muttered, turning it over in his hands.

_Slit that monster's throat with it_, I thought grimly, but said nothing aloud. Watson frowned, scanning the room, until his eyes stopped at a point on the opposite wall, and he walked towards it. I followed his gaze, and saw that he was walking to the missing section of the wall where the papers had been hidden. There was just enough room for the dagger to fit inside. Watson carefully smoothed the paper back over it, then returned to the desk and placed the jewelry box in one of the drawers.

"Hopefully he'll think we took the knife with us and not bother to search for it," Watson said quietly. "I think we're going to have to leave the lantern behind," he said, gesturing toward the dark lantern I had brought with us. "It's too bulky and heavy to bring along." I nodded in agreement.

He snatched up my coat from the floor next to the desk and knelt down beside me. "I'm going to help you put on your coat. Even with your right arm completely inside the coat, I think you are thin enough that we should be able to button most of the buttons." I nodded, and he helped me lean forward and slide my left arm into the sleeve. He pulled it gently but securely around my shoulders, and quickly buttoned it with a slight bit of assistance on my part; I was not completely invalided.

After donning his own coat, he knelt beside me and placed my left arm around his shoulders and helped me to my feet. My shoulder throbbed and my head swam, and I was afraid for a moment that I might faint again, but I thankfully remained conscious. After a second or two I noticed that Watson was supporting over half of my weight and I struggled to move some of my weight back to my own legs, weak though I felt. A wave of nausea coursed through me and I fought the urge to vomit as the pain in my shoulder seared with every move I made.

Watson picked up my pistol from the desk. "Do you think you can aim well enough left-handed to want to carry this?" he asked.

"Of course," I said through clenched teeth, and he placed it into my hand. I was starting to get used to the slightly numbed throbbing in my shoulder, but the room seemed to be getting chillier and my head lighter.

My Boswell closed the shade on Cauldwell's dark lantern, plunging the room into pitch darkness.

"How are we going to do this?" I managed to ask through still-clenched teeth.

"Any way we can," he replied. Despite the darkness of that room, I caught a glimpse of the man my Watson had been as an army surgeon during the Afghan campaign: a man who while doing his duty as a doctor could receive Jezail bullets in both his shoulder and his leg, and still survive the tragic battle of Maiwand, undoubtedly saving the lives of dozens of soldiers along the way.

"Lead the charge then, General," I replied.

He spared my army jargon a small twitch of a smile, and then did just that.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

**_Watson_**

Swallowing a cold lump of fear, I started toward the door, supporting Holmes as I went. I whispered, "When I open the door, you lean on the frame and hold your pistol to whomever is on the left. I'll take the one on the right. Preferably, this'll go down without either of us actually firing, as it will alert the others, but we may have no choice."

Holmes nodded, panting. It was difficult to see his face, but his skin had an unhealthy pallor and sweat shone on his sharp features. He appeared to be going into shock.

We reached the door. I put my hand on the doorknob, and helped Holmes prop himself up against the door. It was against my professional judgment to allow him to do anything at all, but I knew he would never agree to stand by idly while I took on the danger alone, no matter how bad his condition.

Drawing in a deep breath, I pulled upon the door with a jerk and put my revolver to the head of the man on the left before he had a chance to so much as move a muscle. I glanced to my right and saw Holmes had done the same. "Don't make any loud noises or sudden moves," I whispered, "or your brains will be adorning the wall, understand?"

"You don't have to tell me twice, Dr. Watson," whispered the man against whom I was holding my revolver. "I'll even put my pistol on the ground nice and slow for you." I recognised his voice to be Brown's, which meant that the other was Williams, as he was the other man Rogers had stationed at this door.

Williams gave a very undignified whimper.

"Between you and me," whispered Brown conspiratorially, "that one's likely to bolt the moment you turn your back. I recommend putting him out of commission for a while, eh? I'll even do the honors for you."

I pressed the barrel of my revolver harder into his temple, warning him not to move. "How do I know you will not attack Holmes or myself instead?" I asked in a louder whisper than I had used yet.

"Three reasons," he responded quietly. "One: I don't attack injured men unprovoked. Two: I have been anxious to do some damage to that weaselly little rat for some time now. And the third reason is a silver pocket knife, about four inches long folded up, and unless I am very much mistaken, resting in your right coat pocket at this very moment. The final reason, I believe, is enough proof on its own."

I gasped. "So it was you!" I whispered. "I thought so, but I couldn't be sure."

He nodded. "It was indeed me. Now, if you will excuse me for just a moment…" He took two steps over to Williams, who stared at the gun in Brown's hand with wide and pleading eyes. "Oh, quit lookin' at me like an overgrown puppy. You're downright pathetic." With that, he gave Williams a solid thump upside the head with the side of his pistol, and the blond man crumpled to the floor unconscious.

As Brown turned back toward Holmes and myself, I noticed that Holmes and Brown shared the same expression of grim amusement that I am only slightly ashamed to admit was likely mirrored upon my features as well.

"Doctor, you can trust me," said Brown, his tone now serious. "Go support Mr. Holmes before he falls over."

Holmes bristled, but did not deny the truth in his words.

"Only if you hand over the pistol and any other weapons on your person," I said, my revolver still trained upon Brown. "I am taking no chances."

The man sighed. "I understand that, but you're going to need another armed man. I'm coming with you. Or rather, you're coming with me."

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Holmes demanded more loudly than I wished he would speak, leaning forward in his earnestness and nearly losing his balance against the wall behind him. He gripped the doorway for support and I took two steps toward him, my eyes and revolver never leaving Brown, and carefully eased Holmes's arm back around my shoulders.

"Not at all, not at all!" replied Brown sounding surprisingly sincere. "I only mean that I have something you want, and I'm the only one who can take you to it."

"To what?" Holmes and I asked in unison.

"The real papers." he replied.

Holmes and I stood in stunned and confused silence for a moment.

"Meaning the ones we have here are fake," said Holmes. "Where's your proof of that?"

"Have you looked very closely at the papers?" asked Brown.

Deciding to trust Brown, at least for the moment, I slowly lowered my revolver, and placed it back in one pocket. I extracted the papers from another pocket, untied the string, and unfolded the papers. Carefully, I flipped through them. To my astonishment, they were all blank.

I showed them to Brown and Holmes.

Holmes gasped. "Who ever would have guessed it?" he muttered. "So you know where the authentic papers are?" he asked, turning his attention to Brown.

"Yes," Brown replied.

"How did you—" I started.

"I'll explain later," Brown replied. "Right now we need to get out of here. The back door by the kitchen below should do nicely as an exit, but these stairs are creaky enough to wake everyone from here to Buckingham Palace, so the route we take will hardly matter."

I had forgotten how creaky the stairs were. Without Brown, we wouldn't stand a chance. Even so, the odds were still stacked high against us.

"At least trust me enough to help you get out of here," Brown urged. "We're running out of time. Cauldwell will return to consciousness soon enough I'm sure, and I don't know about you, but I want to be as far as possible from here when that happens."

"How did you know—" Holmes began.

"Thin walls," Brown explained. "I told Williams to keep his mouth shut about what he was hearing or I would push him into that hole in the floor. It worked." He started forward, keeping carefully near the wall. "Follow me."

I glanced at Holmes, who shrugged as if to say, _I can think of no better course of action_. He tightened his grip on my shoulders and we followed behind Brown as best we could.

When we reached the stairs, Brown stopped, holding his pistol defensively before him, and listened intently. Holmes and I did the same. I hadn't noticed it before, but the house seemed eerily silent.

"I'll take care of anyone in front of us, you two watch behind," Brown whispered. "Hopefully it takes everyone a minute to realise that the wrong people are coming down the stairs. We nodded and he started down, Holmes and myself at his heels. We did not attempt to walk quietly, for Cauldwell and Williams surely wouldn't have made any attempts to silence their footsteps, had it been them descending. The stairs creaked loudly, their racket matched only by the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. Adrenaline coursed through my veins like liquid fire, lending me more strength than I ever imagined I could have after such a trying day. I noticed Holmes's breath coming in pained and steadily shallower gasps, so I subtly took on more of his weight as we awkwardly descended the staircase.

We reached the foot of the stairs, and Brown turned right and crept silently down the hallway leading to the back of the house, Holmes and I following as quietly as possible. We passed doorways here and there, and Brown swept a few cobwebs out of the way as we went. He stopped several feet in front of a door at the end of the hall, appearing to lead outside.

"Crawford should be back here," he whispered. "He's probably standing just outside the door. You two keep back and I'll take him by surprise." His tone brooked no argument, and we gave none.

I stepped back a few paces, Holmes stumbling slightly as he followed my lead, forcing me to half-drag him to his feet. Brown crept silently forward. He had almost reached the door when he suddenly toppled forward, slamming the side of his jaw against the door, reeling backwards, and falling to the ground with a resounding crash. The door swung outward, and Crawford leapt inside, his revolver before him, and promptly hit the ground himself, his handgun skidding across the floor toward my feet. I snatched it up as Brown dragged himself to his feet.

"Fishing line," he said, examining the thin string that had tripped both of them. "Nice touch, Crawford. It's too bad you fell into your own trap. We'll let you tell everyone how we got away." Brown flashed a crooked grin, and for half a second I could have sworn there was something familiar about his face, but for the life of me I couldn't put my finger on it. His smile disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he gave Crawford a measured knock on the head with the barrel of his revolver as I carefully placed Crawford's gun into another of my pockets.

"You have a fair amount of experience with that particular move," Holmes observed, sounding far weaker than I should have liked.

"A good deal more than I care to admit," Brown replied. "Now follow me, before the others come." He carefully stepped over the fishing line and out the door. Holmes and I did the same. Brown carefully nudged Crawford's feet inside and closed the door.

"Let's hope we can avoid Johnson and Shenston," said Brown. "They're supposed to be on the street, so if we take the back way out of here, we ought to be fine." He set off left down the alley, walking swiftly and confidently as only a man who knows a place very well can in the dark. This struck me as odd, but so did a good many things about this peculiar man.

Brown's rapid pace soon began to take quite a toll on my unfortunate friend. I could see by the dim light of the moon that there was even more sweat shining on Holmes's pale face as he gasped for breath, and I could feel my strength flagging as he involuntarily forced me to support more and more of his weight.

"Brown," I whispered urgently. "We need to slow down or Holmes is going to—"

Holmes went limp, and would have crumpled to the ground if Brown hadn't rushed to his side and grabbed his other arm.

"—faint," I finished, inwardly cursing myself for not having spoken up before.

"For God's sake, Doctor, why didn't you say something sooner?!" whispered Brown in a horror struck tone. We adjusted our hold on Holmes, so that he was holding up Holmes's legs and I was supporting his midriff.

"I honestly didn't know he was so doing so badly," I said, a heavy weight of guilt settling in the pit of my stomach as I looked down at my friend's slack face. "He has lost more blood than this before and remained alert. I think the emotional trauma of the evening must have weakened him."

Brown nodded and we started forward. "I don't doubt it. It's been a rough week, for you two, and me as well."

"Indeed," I agreed as I awkwardly—due to my broken left arm—hoisted up Holmes legs and Brown took his torso, and we set off again.

We walked, if you could call it walking, for several blocks. The only sound in the silence was our own ragged breathing.

"Brown," I said after several minutes, as my strength began to flag. "Where exactly is it we are going?"

Brown cast a momentary glance in my direction and frowned, as if unsure how to reply. After I had nearly given up hope that he would reply at all, I heard him say, "One of the safest places in London."

Some time later, as we were walking along a street full of nearly identical dull brick houses, Brown began to peer at the house numbers as we passed, which I took to be a sign that we were getting close. I had judged correctly, for Brown led the way up to the door of number 146 and unlocked it with a key from his coat pocket. The door swung open with a loud creaking sound and we awkwardly carried Holmes's limp form over the threshold and into the front hall.

We placed Holmes's feet on the ground and I leant him up against the wall with his good arm over my shoulder so that I was supporting his weight but keeping him upright using the wall. Brown made to light the gas.

"Where are we?" I asked quietly as I turned to face Brown.

Before he had a chance to answer, a stern, male, and strikingly familiar voice spoke from the end of the hallway.

"Whatever person or persons are trespassing in my house, I warn you that I am well armed and have been with the police for over nineteen years, so for your sakes, I would recommend doing what I say."

"George, calm down, it's just me!" Brown exclaimed.

An irritated sigh came from the end of the hall as Brown turned on the gas.

"Duncan!" said the man at the end of the hall, "I told you to stop sneaking in like that. You know what happened the last time you picked the lock on that door." As my eyes adjusted, I suddenly recognised him.

"Inspector Patterson?" I said incredulously. Patterson was the Scotland Yard detective that had worked closely with Holmes in the Moriarty case.

"Is that you, Dr. Watson? And—Great Scott, is that Mr. Holmes as well? What's happened?"

"First," said Brown (or Duncan?), "I didn't pick the lock, I used that key you gave me this time, and instead of asking questions, I think you ought to allow us to invade the sitting room."

"Yes, of course," said Patterson, yawning widely. He was clad in his nightclothes, a dressing gown hastily thrown over top of them, and appeared to have been sound asleep prior to our arrival.

Brown gestured for Patterson to come towards him, and the two strode back to me and picked up Holmes. They carried him to the sitting room, and I followed.

"By the way," said Brown as we were making our way there, "where are Helen, and the boys?"

"Helen's visiting her parents this weekend. She left earlier this evening, and took Jamie and little Dylan with her."

Brown nodded. "Probably just as well."

I looked back and forth between the two, attempting to recall everything Holmes had told me about recognising the relationships between different people. While the two were vastly different in appearance—Patterson had dark hair and a tall, thin figure, whereas Brown was shorter and more sturdily built with sandy hair—they spoke and acted very much like I would expect two people very close to each other, such as very close friends or brothers, would. I looked for physical similarities. As we entered the sitting room, I observed that they had similarly shaped faces, and in particular that their ears were nearly identical.

"Are you two brothers?" I asked as they laid Holmes on the sofa.

"Yes, we are," said the Inspector, surprised. "How did you know?"

I shrugged. "Based on your familiar attitude, and a few physical similarities. It was the ears that gave it away," I added, smiling.

"Ears, you say," said Patterson, absently scratching behind his left one as he spoke. "You spend a good deal more time with Holmes than most people could stomach, so I suppose his methods rub off on you after a while."

"It would seem so," I replied.

"Well, what happened to him?" Patterson asked for the second time.

"Deep knife wound to the right shoulder, followed by serious blood loss which caused him to go into shock and then lose consciousness," I replied. "Do you happen have some bandages and antiseptic, and morphine as well? All my medical supplies are at home, and my doctor's bag was confiscated when I was abducted this morning."

"Yes, as it happens, I believe I do have all of that," Patterson replied slowly. "I have a cousin who is a doctor, and he left a few medical things here, 'just in case,' as he said. I shall find them for you. And after you finish patching up Mr. Holmes, I would like a full account of what the devil is going on, from both of you! If you are both feeling equal to it, that is," he added in a far more patient tone as he strode away in search of the medical supplies, muttering something about never being able to "get a full nights' rest in these days".

I turned to Brown, noticing bruise was beginning to form on the right side of his jaw, presumably from tripping on that fishing line earlier. "Are you older, or younger?"

"Younger, by about three years," he replied.

"And the name 'Brown' is just an assumed name you're using while working for Cauldwell?"

Brown nodded. "And under Moriarty as well."

"You worked for Moriarty?" I asked.

"Yes," Brown replied. "George and I will explain everything when Mr. Holmes is conscious. I don't want to go through it all twice."

"Fair enough," I replied. "Help me take off Holmes's coat and shirt."

Brown removed Holmes's coat and I carefully undid the makeshift tourniquet. We removed his waistcoat and shirt as gently as we could, trying to move his right arm as little as possible. Thankfully Holmes's injury had stopped bleeding, though it was not a pleasant sight by any stretch of the imagination. I took a deep, shuddering breath. I had seen worse injuries than this before, but as anyone in the medical field would tell you, it is always different when a loved one is injured.

Brown gave me a gentle, reassuring clap on the shoulder, and said, "He'll come through this all right, Doctor, mark my words. Give him a few days, and he'll be ready to take on the world again."

I nodded numbly, but did not speak. I truly wanted to believe Brown, but it was difficult to do so, while staring down at my dear friend's bloody torso and gaunt face, slack from unconsciousness. So wan was he that he resembled a corpse more than a living person, and I had to take his pulse to reaffirm that he still lived. Anxiety and nausea twisted my insides, and I felt for a moment as though I might vomit.

Thankfully, Patterson soon returned and distracted me from my morbid thoughts. He showed me to the washroom to so I could cleanse my rather disgusting hands. Brown and I (I needed the help as my left arm was still largely useless) cleaned the blood off the skin around Holmes's injury, and on his hands where he had been clutching his shoulder, and I disinfected the wound. Patterson left to find some blankets and a clean shirt as Brown and I carefully bandaged Holmes's shoulder, and put the shirt that Patterson brought us onto him. I administered a syringe of morphine that would hopefully keep my friend unconscious for about eight hours, and checked his pulse. It was weak and thready, but substantially better than it could have been.

"You ought to do something about that cut on your cheek as well," said Brown.

"Oh," I said, reaching up and gingerly touching the dried blood upon my face. "I'd nearly forgotten about it."

I carefully cleaned the side of my face in front of the bathroom mirror, and determined, to my relief, that the cut was shallow enough that I would not need stitches. I covered the cut with a bit of sticking plaster, and returned to the sitting room.

Brown and Patterson had moved Holmes into a lying position with pillow under his head, and had spread a couple of the blankets over him, and left three sitting on the ottoman. They had also moved what appeared to be the most comfortable chair in the room next to the end of the settee where Holmes's head lay.

"Now, would you two tell me what happened?" said Patterson, after gesturing for me to sit in the chair next to Holmes.

Brown shook his head. "We'll explain everything to you along with Inspector Lestrade and Mr. Mycroft Holmes in the morning. I doubt the Doctor will want to go through it more times than necessary; I know that I don't."

"Are you sure no more action can be taken yet tonight? Should I be calling the Yard? Is there anything I can tell them?" Patterson persisted.

"I've been on the inside with Cauldwell's gang long enough to know that now isn't the time for hasty action," Brown replied. "We need to get everyone together to plan the best course of action."

"And I think we would all benefit from some rest. You can call everyone together in the morning," I added.

"I don't like it," said Patterson, "but it appears I'll have to live with it." He stifled a yawn, and glanced at a clock on the wall. "Good heavens, it's nearly eleven. Duncan, you take the spare bedroom across from mine, and Doctor, you can take the one next to it, unless you would prefer to stay with Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," I replied. "I would prefer to remain with my patient."

"As I expected," Patterson replied. "Good night, Doctor."

"Good night, both of you," I replied.

The two brothers set off down the hall. I snatched a spare blanket from the ottoman and settled into my chair in preparation for a long bedside vigil.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

**_Holmes_**

As I slowly returned to consciousness, the first thing I noted was a very unpleasant sensation, as though my head had been stuffed with cotton. _Why_ had I been given morphine? I attempted to shift my position, and a sudden sharp pain shot through my shoulder! I opened my eyes with a loud gasp.

Watson's anxious face came into focus before me. "Please, don't try to move," he said.

I grimaced. "I don't plan on it." I was just beginning to wonder what on earth had happened, when everything came back to me in awful clarity and I let out another gasp.

The worry creases in Watson's face deepened.

"I'm all right," I hastened to assure him. "I just remembered what happened, that's all." I closed my eyes. The events of last night felt surreal, more like a horrible nightmare than reality. "What time is it?" I asked.

"About a quarter to nine," was Watson's reply. "And we're currently in Inspector Patterson's house. Last night I learned that Brown is actually Patterson's younger brother."

"Hmm," I replied slowly, as my sluggish mind halfheartedly attempted to process this information. "Brothers, interesting. They certainly don't look much alike, though Mycroft and I are living proof that some brothers don't look alike at all," I added, shrugging with my uninjured shoulder. "Mycroft!" I exclaimed, suddenly remembering that as of yet he knew nothing about what had occurred last night.

"Inspector Patterson said he would send Mycroft and Lestrade telegrams to telling them to come here when you regained consciousness, so that Brown can tell his story once to everyone involved, and we can recount the events of last night."

I nodded. "Good plan."

"Now," said Watson, adopting what I recognised as his Serious Doctor voice, "I believe Patterson's housekeeper is nearly done making breakfast, and I would truly appreciate it if you would partake."

I cringed. "I would really rather not…"

"Allow me to rephrase that," said Watson, leaning forward in his chair. "You are going to eat some breakfast whether you want to or not, if you would like me to allow you to so much as leave that couch in the next few days."

"Watson, you are ever so cunning," I replied fondly. "I shall at least attempt to have a little toast."

Watson nodded. "Good." Worry gnawed at my insides when I saw how exhausted and anxious my dear friend looked.

"Why don't you see what you can do about a change of clothes?" I said, noticing that Watson was wearing the same rumpled and bloodstained clothes of the previous evening. He probably hadn't left my side long enough to change.

"One of the lads on the street managed to track down Edwin, the Irregular," said Watson, "and I sent him to the flat to ask Mrs. Hudson to grab us each a set of clothes and give the boy enough money to take a cab back here."

"Good thinking, Watson," I praised. Watson smiled, though it looked a little strained. He seemed to be quite worried about me, the dear chap.

After a pause, I asked, "Did I miss anything of importance last night? After I, you know…" I trailed off, reluctant use the word "fainted". I have a habit of at least trying to pretend I had a few shreds of dignity left to me.

My friend shrugged. "Not too much. Brown and I carried you back here, I rebandaged your shoulder and gave you a shot of morphine. Then I tended to the cut on my face." He gestured toward it, and I shuddered, remembering the circumstances under which he received the injury.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

I gave a noncommittal shrug, which he apparently took to mean "yes, but I don't want to admit it", which was a fairly accurate translation, and he carefully laid another blanket over me.

I heard footsteps and Brown entered my field of view, holding a steaming mug that smelled deliciously of coffee. He looked exhausted and was sporting a purple bruise on the side of his chin from his fall yesterday. "Ah! The great detective has awakened! I'm quite glad of that. Your medical friend was getting rather worried. Said you should have woken up already." He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. "The whole Queen's army couldn't have moved him from that chair if they tried."

I beamed fondly and Watson's face reddened.

Brown snorted. "Nothing to be ashamed of, Doctor," he said. "I'll ask Miss Violet to bring in some breakfast for you two."

"Thank you," replied Watson, and Brown nodded and turned to go.

"Brown, do you think you could get me a cup of coffee?" I asked, fighting back a yawn.

"Absolutely not," Watson cut in.

Brown shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, I'm not about to argue with the doctor."

"Probably for the best," I replied, fighting back a smile. "He can be quite a bear when he doesn't get his way."

Watson shot me a glare. "If you weren't injured, I _would_ throw something at you.

As Brown retreated, he shot over his shoulder, "Please keep the violence to a minimum, gentlemen!"

It suddenly registered that our friendliness with Brown was somewhat strange. Though, considering all that we had come through in last night's ordeal, along with Brown's energetic and friendly personality, perhaps it was not so unexpected after all.

My mind returning to the discussion at hand, I grinned annoyingly and responded to Watson's remark about throwing things at me with: "Well, there ought to be some advantages to being injured!"

My friend snorted. "I suppose the privilege of insulting one's doctor comes with being injured, but generally patients don't do it to their doctor's face, as most doctors would take offense."

"But you are not 'most doctors'," I replied.

"Ah! Was that Sherlock Holmes, actually _complimenting_ someone?" my dear friend exclaimed.

"Oh shut up, the morphine has obviously addled my brains," I replied, involuntarily yawning again.

Watson immediately switched back to his doctor persona. "You should be resting."

"So you admit that arguing with you is strenuous?" I asked mischievously.

"I'm not going to dignify that question with an answer," I heard Watson reply.

"And weren't you just anxiously waiting for me to awaken, and now you want me to rest?" I continued, even as I closed my eyes.

"Here comes breakfast!" I heard Brown's voice from a distance behind me, and I opened my eyes. I saw a girl I assumed was the housekeeper set a breakfast tray on the ottoman and quickly leave. Watson helped me into a sitting position.

Patterson marched into the sitting room. "I'm going to send a telegram to Lestrade and Mr. Mycroft Holmes to come immediately. You convinced me to wait till morning, and I see Holmes is now awake. Your brother won't mind coming here too much, I hope?" Patterson asked me.

"It won't please him, but he'll definitely come," I replied.

The door bell rang. "I'll answer it, Violet," called Patterson as he strode down the hall to do so.

He returned a minute later carrying a bag. "It was the lad with your change of clothes," he said, setting the bag of clothing down next to the couch.

"Thank you," said Watson.

Patterson nodded. "I'll go write those telegrams now." He swiftly exited the sitting room.

Eating breakfast with only my left arm was dreadfully frustrating, and changing my clothes even worse. Watson was not in quite as bad straits as me, since his damaged limb was not attached to his dominant hand, but it wasn't easy for him either. In one way or another, we managed both tasks and were seated in the sitting room—along with the Patterson brothers—by the time Lestrade arrived.

He removed his jacket and hat and handed them to the housekeeper as he entered the sitting room. "Goodness, Mr. Holmes, Watson! No surprise this affair led to more trouble for you two, but how did you get Patterson involved?" He turned toward Brown. "And, who might you be?"

"Duncan Patterson, the Inspector's younger brother," said Brown, rising from his chair and holding out his hand to the little detective.

Lestrade shook it. "I didn't know you had a brother," said Lestrade to Patterson as he seated himself in the chair between my end of the sofa and Patterson's armchair.

"Most people don't," replied the elder Patterson, shrugging.

There was a knock at the door, and Violet—who had returned from hanging up Lestrade's coat and hat and had been quietly standing in the hall—hurried to answer it.

"This is Inspector Patterson's residence?" Mycroft's voice boomed from the front hall.

"Yes, sir," the girl answered.

"Here is my hat, and my coat, and here is my stick, Miss. Thank you."

The girl headed down the other hall and my brother came into view, breathing rather heavily.

"I certainly hope there is a very good reason I have come halfway across London this morning," he said, his voice calm, but he seemed to be in quite a foul mood. "I had the _worst_ cab ride of my entire life…" he said, mopping his brow.

"I do apologise, Mr. Holmes," said Patterson. "This is urgent business. Please, sit down." He gestured to the chair between himself and his brother. "I am afraid your brother has not recovered enough from last night to be doing an extensive amount of moving, so we felt we had no choice but to summon you here."

Watson nodded in apologetic agreement.

Mycroft's face creased with concern as he sank into the chair offered to him and placed his handkerchief into a jacket pocket. "Recovered?" he inquired, his keen eyes taking in my appearance.

"From a stab wound to my right shoulder," I supplied.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Lestrade, aghast.

My brother raised his bushy eyebrows. "First Watson's abducted, now you've been stabbed?! I thought you agreed to keep out of this business!"

"All right, let us tell everything in the proper order," said Brown in an attempt to silence them both.

Mycroft peered at him curiously. "And, who might you be?"

"Duncan Patterson, younger brother to the Inspector here," he replied, nodding toward Patterson.

Mycroft nodded. "Ah, I might have known it."

Duncan looked slightly confused.

My brother went on. "Your voices are similar, and you have nearly the same ear, you see."

Both Pattersons immediately reached up to touch their ears.

"What _is_ it with you Holmeses and noticing that sort of thing?" Inspector Patterson exclaimed.

Lestrade chucked at his startled and rather disconcerted expression.

"I'll be completely honest," I remarked, "I did not notice the similarity of their ears until Mycroft pointed them out."

"Maybe you didn't, detective," said Brown, "but Watson here did, which is close enough."

"_You_ noticed?" I said incredulously, turning to Watson.

Watson smiled with his peculiar expression of shy pride. "Yes, I did."

"Excellent observation!" I praised. Watson beamed back at me.

"_Back_ on topic," Brown cut in, "we're all here so that the six of us can all get on the same page, and do something about capturing Cauldwell." He now had everyone's attention. "Everyone knows what happened five years ago today?"

We nodded solemnly.

"All right then. I have another side of that story to add. After which, Mr. Holmes and the Doctor here can explain what happened last night.

"I'll try to make this as short a story as possible, and attempt not to meander off topic," apologised Brown—or Duncan, rather. "First off, George was always the good brother and I was the troublemaker. He joined the police force, and I ended up in prison. I made a few bad decisions that almost got me killed, but put me into contact with a man I would later discover was Moriarty. I half-worked, half-bluffed my way into a position of at least a bit of power, and had a sudden change of heart, but once I was in, there was no way out, but death.

"So I made the most of it, leaking as much information as I could to George, who was already hard at work with you, Mr. Holmes, in unravelling the Moriarty case. That would have been about the time I was assigned to keep an eye on Miss Jane Holmes. True to his character of trusting no one's loyalty completely, including Cauldwell's, he wanted another set of eyes on that front.

"I started out simply tailing her and making sure that scumbag Cauldwell did her no harm, but I soon came to know her very well under the guise of her new neighbour. I realised she was a very respectable, intelligent young woman, and that she was gathering a good deal of minor information from Cauldwell, but had nowhere to go with it. I arranged a secret meeting between Jane, George, and myself to plan a system of getting information to George."

"So _that_ is the 'classified lead' you refused to explain to me," I said, amazed. "I never would have guessed it."

"I sincerely apologise for keeping you in the dark," said Inspector Patterson, his voice and expression sincere. "Those were desperate times, and the information she was able go gain was sometimes vital. She swore that if either you, or you, Mr. Holmes," he added, nodding toward Mycroft, "knew what she was doing, you would have put a stop to it. So we said nothing to you. In hindsight, that was a terrible choice that may have cost her life. And after her death, I saw no benefit in revealing her secret, other than to soothe my own conscience."

"Come now, Inspector, you mustn't blame yourself," my brother said kindly.

"No indeed," I added, in a voice far slower and quieter than I normally spoke. "Jane…would have found another way. She always was a bit of a risk taker."

"I'll attest to that," Duncan agreed, smiling his peculiar smile again. I now realised it was familiar because his brother had nearly the same grin.

"And she wouldn't have wanted us sitting around blaming ourselves when we could be taking action," I added, my words coming more quickly and confidently now. "Now, what about these real papers Cauldwell is looking for? You said they are here?"

"What's this about 'real papers'?" asked Lestrade.

"Now it is time that let Mr. Holmes and the Doctor explain what occurred last night," said Duncan, "then all should make more sense."

"Watson, you are the storyteller," I said.

My Boswell took a deep breath, apparently searching for a place to start and the words to use.

"After the insanity of yesterday afternoon, Holmes determined that his next course of action…"


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

**_Watson_**

At Holmes's request, I recounted our arrival at Jane's old rooms, the terrible shock of discovering that we had walked straight into Cauldwell's trap, the awful minutes when Holmes was attempting to find the papers, and the even more horrible time afterward, when we seemed to be as good as dead. I told them of Holmes's heroic near self-sacrifice, perhaps embellishing it slightly. I could not help myself—I had never before seen so much of Holmes's heart, and it meant a great deal to me that he so valued my life that he would have given his own to preserve mine.

To my immense embarrassment, a lump began to form in the back of my throat towards the latter part of my narrative, and Holmes, tactfully refraining from commenting on the fact, requested that Patterson bring me a glass of water, which the Inspector readily did. Holmes took over the story at that juncture, telling how I bandaged his shoulder and lead 'the charge', as he called it, out the door. Duncan, alias Brown, picked up the narrative here, and gave an account of the events from then to our arrival at Patterson's rooms.

"All right then," said Lestrade, after Duncan had finished. "I have some news that will interest all of you as well. I was called to Miss Jane Holmes's old rooms in the very early hours of this morning, due to reports of some sort of disturbance and possibly gunshots from the people living across the street, who knew that the building has been abandoned for years. I arrived there, and found basically what you left behind, except that everyone was gone but Williams. He had been shot twice in the stomach and was bleeding to death in the sitting room upstairs.

"I don't know how, but he was still conscious when I found him. Still, it was evident that he had lost too much blood already for there to be much of a chance of saving him. I asked him if he knew where Cauldwell and the others would be going, and without much persuasion he told me that Cauldwell and Crawford would be hiding at Crawford's residence at 17 Sheffield Terrace, and that he had overheard that others 'would not be able to find them easily', but that he didn't know exactly what was meant by that. He also told me that Cauldwell thought he was dead before the others left the house, but that Jefferson—whom Cauldwell had ordered to kill Williams—had left him to die more slowly. It is fortunate I arrived there so quickly; Williams was dead within twenty minutes.

"Rather than sending constables round to 17 Sheffield Terrace immediately, I sent a telegram to Holmes, knowing that this had to involve him in some way. I was determined to visit 221B personally this morning, when Patterson's telegram arrived, calling me here."

We were silent for a very long moment, each lost in our own thoughts.

Then Lestrade spoke again. "Now that we're all caught up, you do have the documents that Cauldwell is seeking?"

"Yes, they're here," said Duncan. "Please, first allow me to explain the nature of these documents." He paused, and we nodded, prompting him to continue. "At first, it seems that Cauldwell was under the mistaken impression that they were merely an encoded list of names of Moriarty's allies and enemies. In reality, they were much more than that. Hidden within the document using a form of invisible ink and a previously unknown cypher were Moriarty's plans to use finesse, blackmail, and political strategy in order to put himself into such a position of governmental power that he would, in essence, have control over the entire nation."

"Good heavens!" I said involuntarily, thinking of how horrible it would have been for Britain, and for that matter, Europe herself if this had come to pass. The others all displayed similar reactions to mine.

"Jane suspected as soon as she saw it that there must be more to it than there seemed to be, and snuck into Cauldwell's shop after hours for nearly a month, first discovering the invisible ink and then figuring out the meaning of the cypher. When she realised that Cauldwell had discovered what she was doing, she brought the paper back to her rooms with the intention of hiding them for you to find. I told her that it was too dangerous to keep them there and that I should take them to my brother's house. She disagreed, saying that no one would expect her to keep them in her rooms, and attempted to leave a few hints behind that she hoped would help you in the letter.

"Jane was nearly done writing it when there was a shout from downstairs. She told me to see what was the matter. She said that she would be all right." I was shocked to hear Duncan's voice quiver on the last word. He swallowed hard and went on, his face showing more emotion than I had yet seen in him.

"I went down, and there was her landlord, attempting to fight off a big bruiser of a man, who I recognised as one of Cauldwell's henchmen. I rushed down the stairs, but was too late—the man had pulled out a pistol and shot the poor old gentleman through the heart before I could so much as shout. He turned on me, but I managed to knock the brute out with the butt of my pistol. Unfortunately, as he fell he shot me in the leg, and I fell backwards, hitting my head on the doorframe of a closet and falling unconscious myself."

Patterson spoke up. "Fortunately, I happened to be in the area, and was able to sneak Duncan out before you arrived, Lestrade. I do apologise about that, but I didn't want any of Moriarty's people to realise that Duncan was on our side."

"It's quite all right," replied Lestrade. "Although at the time, it was infernally frustrating to understand why it appeared that the man at the foot of the stairs had knocked himself out with his own handgun."

"How did the papers end up here then, if Jane wanted them hidden in her room?" Holmes inquired.

"I went back after the police investigation had ceased, and replaced the real papers with those blank sheets that you saw last night," Duncan replied. "I was certain they would be safer here than there, especially since Cauldwell had taken the letter in which she had left clews to help find them in her rooms."

Holmes nodded.

"There is just one thing I would like to clear up," I said. "Based on the things Cauldwell said last night, he has realised that the document was more than he believed it to be at the time, and began seeking it recently. Are we then to believe that he means to gain control of the British government?"

"I can see no plausible alternative," Holmes replied.

"Though he's mad to think he could manage it," Patterson said.

"He is certainly a madman," remarked Mycroft darkly. "There is no doubt about that. Though I would like to see those papers, Inspector Patterson."

"Yes, of course," Patterson replied, rising from his seat. "You have more knowledge of the workings of the British government than all of the rest of us combined. I'll go and fetch them."

He returned a minute later with a small stack of papers tied together with brown twine. Untying it, he revealed a stack of perhaps fifteen or twenty sheets of paper, the top one filled with thin and spidery handwriting.

"Moriarty's handwriting," Holmes commented, leaning forward and staring down at them. He suddenly frowned. "Wait a moment. Duncan, if Moriarty suspected that Cauldwell wanted to overthrow him, why would these papers have been entrusted to him?"

Duncan frowned. "I really have no idea."

"Perhaps he hoped that Jane would find them, and use them to aid in arresting Cauldwell," I suggested.

"That could very well have been the case; it would have been consistent with Moriarty's usual tactics," said Mycroft. "But this is all beside the point now, and we will never know for sure. Sherlock, may I see them?"

The younger Holmes handed them over, and Mycroft flipped through the sheets, revealing that the first eleven were Moriarty's original and the last eight were Jane's unfinished copy. He began skimming through Jane's translation of the encoded plan, one after another, more quickly than any of the others could, save perhaps Holmes.

"This is quite a clever plot," Mycroft observed, finally laying down the last paper. "With some alterations due to the lapse of five years, this plan could still be far more effective than anyone in the government would like to believe. This information could prove extremely dangerous if it falls into the wrong hands, and should be destroyed as soon as possible, along with any existing copies. Does everyone agree?"

"Wait a moment," Lestrade broke in. "Could it possibly be used as bait in capturing Cauldwell?"

"Perhaps," Holmes replied slowly and thoughtfully. "But at this point, his foremost goal will be saving his own miserable skin, not regaining possession of the papers."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "And now that enough people know who he is and we are in a position to find and arrest the remainder of his following, the papers will be the last thing on his mind. He will want to escape, possibly back to America, or to somewhere else this time."

Holmes cut in. "Our only hope is to corner and capture him before he has a chance to flee."

"Agreed," said Mycroft.

"So we destroy the documents?" Holmes verified. "Does everyone agree to that?"

"It _is_ evidence," Lestrade noted dubiously. "While I agree that the information is extremely dangerous, we may well have need of these papers."

"I have no doubt I can find two or three pages that can safely be used as evidence, but do not contain any vital information," said Mycroft. He began to thumb through the sheets.

Lestrade nodded. "I suppose that would be all right," said he.

"I can destroy the rest of the documents," volunteered Duncan, "if I don't need to be doing something else. I'll tear the sheets up into small strips and burn them."

"Thank you, Duncan," said Inspector Patterson.

"As I said before, this information has the potential to be very dangerous to national interests," Mycroft interjected. "It would be wise to have a witness to the destruction. Violet, perhaps?"

"Of course," replied Duncan. "I'll bring Violet with me."

"All right, that is taken care of, then," said the elder Patterson.

"Our next order of business ought to be figuring out how to capture Cauldwell before he flees the country," I said.

"I agree," Lestrade replied, and paused expectantly. "Does anyone have a suggestion?"

"It's fairly obvious, is it not?" Holmes retorted, absently tugging at the bandaging on his shoulder.

I gently nudged my friend's hand away from his shoulder and back into his lap before he did any damage.

"It is?" said Lestrade and Patterson at nearly the same moment, then stared at each other in surprise.

"We go in and take him," said Holmes. "Unless Williams was lying, and based on what I know of his nature, I doubt that is the case. Cauldwell and Crawford will be hiding at Crawford's residence, most likely waiting for the arrival of the next ship headed for America, or anywhere else in the world. There will only be the two of them and probably a servant or two on their side, but we have the six of us and the police force at our back. With these odds, it should not be too difficult."

"We must be careful to avoid underestimating Cauldwell," Mycroft warned. "He has already proven himself elusive, and patient when it comes to hiding. However, I do agree that this could work—but only if we do some very careful planning. He can have absolutely no knowledge of our coming ahead of time, and so far as we know he will still have people watching us, and watching his street. We shall have to throw off anyone tailing us, arrive quickly, and surround the building well enough that he cannot possibly escape—"

"What about secret passageways out?" interjected Lestrade.

"I took the liberty of checking for any available information regarding the building yesterday afternoon," the elder Holmes explained, then went on. "It is unlikely due to the fact that the building is only twenty years old, and there have been no major constructions on it in that time; it would remain a remote possibility. Even if he manages to escape through a secret passage, Scotland Yard can tell the crews of any ships leaving in the next week to watch for men of Cauldwell and Crawford's descriptions."

"I will put my best men onto that as soon as I return to the Yard," said Lestrade.

"Good," said Mycroft. "However, that should only be a last resort. Our best chance of capturing him is cornering him in the house, and as we haven't the faintest idea where in the house he has been hiding, it may not be quite as easy as my brother suggests."

"Hm," Holmes replied, frowning, his expression betraying how much he disliked admitting that his brother was correct.

"Well, gentlemen," said Duncan, "I think we're all going to have to swallow our pride for a short while and put our heads together on this one."

"I shall find my map of London," said Patterson, "and we can work out how exactly we are going to manage this."

**_Holmes_**

After much tedious planning with which I shall not presume to bore any readers, we had an excellent plan worked out. We all agreed that we would be able to capture Cauldwell—assuming, of course, that we had enough luck on our side for things to go according to the plan.

I had only one problem with the plan: I was not included in it.

Watson was steadfastly of the opinion that I was not well enough to go along on this venture, and my brother readily agreed, appearing more concerned for me than I had seen him in quite some time. Neither of the Inspectors nor Duncan could be swayed.

What was more, Watson wished to remain with me instead of going along. While I appreciated the gesture, this left only the two Pattersons and Lestrade, along with any of the police constables they brought with them to take on Cauldwell. (Mycroft's work at Whitehall was too pressing for him to take any more time away, not to mention that he had already been involved in far more of the field work than he ever preferred to be.)

Lestrade was out quietly getting the warrant to search Crawford's house, which he and fortunately already had in motion due to the earlier calling card with the address written on it. Duncan—with Violet as a witness—was in the basement destroying the documents, and Patterson was out doing something or other for the police. Watson and I were alone once more, so I decided to try reasoning with him again.

"Why can I not at least come along?" I asked him. "Not to actually do anything or be any danger, just to _be_ there? You know, as another set of eyes, so to speak."

"Must I say it again? You're simply not well enough yet to be doing anything of any sort," Watson replied, a tad impatient by this time.

"Perhaps, but I should like to be there at the end of this business," I replied. "This man tried to kill us. I want to help capture him."

"I understand that, but we are staying here," my friend replied. "That is final."

"But Watson!" I protested.

"But _what_, Holmes?!" he replied angrily. "I'm not about to risk you getting hurt again, all right?"

"I am not about to risk you getting hurt again either, which is why I need to go along and help capture him," I said, doing my utmost to keep my town calm and even.

Watson sighed. "I understand, really I do, but you are not well enough—"

"You are simply being unreasonable."

"And you are acting like a child!"

"I don't appreciate—"

"What? Me saving your miserable life? Because that's all I'm trying to do!"

"You are being overprotective! You're not my mother!"

"And thank heavens I am not! I feel for the poor woman."

"She happens to be dead, so why don't you cease speaking about her—"

"You are the one who brought her into the conversation, not me!"

"No, _you_ said—"

By this time, our voices had loudened to shouts and Watson had risen to his feet. I was standing up as well when I was hit by a sudden spell of dizziness and collapsed rather than sat back into my chair.

"Oh my God! Holmes, are you all right? I am so sorry!" said Watson.

"No, no, I'm fine, really," I replied waving him off.

"I am so very sorry," he repeated, sitting down and staring at me, appearing as shocked as I was about what had just taken place.

"No, it's not your fault, I was being an obstinate idiot," I said.

"Yes, you were, but that is no excuse for arguing with you. I am so, so sorry. It's just…all the stress, I suppose. I just sort of snapped on you, and you don't deserve that." He sat down and put his face in his hands. "I guess it is strenuous to argue with me," he admitted, his voice muffled.

"Neither of us have been our usual selves of late," I replied. "You mustn't blame yourself. It's this whole business. Cauldwell, and all of the stress and emotions he has caused in our lives are obfuscating our view of the situation." I slammed my fist down on the arm of the chair in frustration.

Watson nodded, saying nothing but when he removed his hands from his face I could see the anger smoldering in his honest hazel eyes. "That man needs to be captured before he does any more damage."

"I wholeheartedly agree," I replied grimly.

"And I am going to do all I can to make sure it happens successfully. We cannot afford to risk him escaping. But at the same time, I can't leave you behind…"

"Take me along then," I replied, hoping I didn't sound as desperate as I felt. "I won't get myself into any trouble, and I'll stay out of any and all violence, should any occur, which if all goes according to plan it won't."

Watson frowned, torn between his desire for justice and loathing of Cauldwell along with my past usefulness in tight spots, and his concern for my well-being.

"And besides, you might need me!" I went on, pressing what I felt was my best argument. "Remember, we don't know exactly where in Crawford's house he and Cauldwell will be hiding. My observational skills may yet again prove useful; I may see something no one else does. You know better than anyone that it has happened on other cases."

Watson sighed, and the frown lines in his forehead and near the corners of his mouth deepened.

"I promise I'll be careful," I added, knowing I was softening him.

There was a prolonged silence, so long that I was starting to give up hope that he would make any reply.

"Right then," he said suddenly, with an air of a man who no longer has a doubt in his mind. "We're both going."

I refrained with much difficulty from cheering aloud. Surprising even myself, my tactics had convinced Watson to allow me along, for what we all hoped was our last phase of dealing with Cauldwell. After five years, I was more than ready to see him apprehended. Recalling that today was the anniversary of my sister's murder at his hands dimmed my enjoyment of winning this argument with the doctor.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

**_Watson_**

After lunching with the Inspector and Duncan Patterson, we took a short detour to 221b to assure Mrs. Hudson that we were both all right…or at least as close to all right as could be expected under the circumstances. Our remarkable landlady had been surprisingly calm—or perhaps it is not so surprising. She has seen us in worse straits before.

In the meanwhile, Mycroft returned to Whitehall to sort out a few very pressing matters, and Lestrade obtained the warrant he had requested the previous afternoon, as well as one for another case. This second case had been reassigned to Hopkins—so that Lestrade could still help us with this business—but it was Lestrade who got the warrant for it, so that hopefully anyone who could be following him would not suspect that he had gotten a warrant to search Crawford's residence as well.

According to the plan, Lestrade would begin heading toward the place where the other warrant was applicable and then double back toward Crawford's rooms in Sheffield Terrace. Patterson and Duncan had both taken separate cabs going in opposite directions and would loop back. Holmes and I would take a cab from 221b and wander aimlessly about London for a while, and then we would head back, in time for all of us to reach our destination at approximately five o'clock.

Of course, the plan had its flaws, but it was the best we could do under the circumstances.

I checked my watch. It was now four-thirty in the afternoon.

Watching me check the time, Holmes said, "The cabman should be turning back east within a block or two. We'll arrive on time." I noticed he was looking a little paler now than he had been earlier.

"Are you sure you are feeling all right?" I asked.

"Watson, I assure you, that if I begin to no longer feel fine, I shall inform you immediately. I know that the last thing we need is for me to have a relapse."

I frowned. "I shouldn't have let you come."

Holmes shook his head. "I talked you into it, you cannot blame yourself."

I made to reply, but he cut me off.

"Just leave it be," he said rather stiffly. "I'm fine."

We spent the rest of the ride in silence. The shaking of the cab, familiar though it had been for years, brought back memories from the two rides with Williams and Jefferson. It was difficult to believe that now Williams was dead and Jefferson a killer. It was even harder to believe that all of that had happened in the course of one day.

We arrived at our destination at two minutes past five. I climbed out of the hansom first, then helped Holmes down as another cab arrived and Inspector Patterson hastily clambered out. Duncan and Lestrade were already there, along with three police constables.

We hastily greeted each other, then quickly headed toward the front door. One of the constables stationed himself there and the other two strode around to the back of the building.

The housekeeper, a pretty blonde girl who could not have been older than nineteen, opened the door.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," she said, looking rather timidly out the doorway at us.

Lestrade spoke up first. "I am Inspector Lestrade, and we are here to search the house for Mr. Wesley Crawford and Mr. Roderick Cauldwell."

"Mr. Crawford hasn't been home since yesterday," she replied as she stepped back and we continued inside.

"Are you quite certain of that?" Holmes asked, surprising the girl.

She stopped and turned round to look at him, a confused look on her face. "He went out yesterday, and none of us have seen him since. He is not here." Then she frowned. "Are you the man who tried to shoot at Mr. Crawford yesterday?"

"I was here yesterday afternoon, but I am afraid you are mistaken," he replied. "Mr. Crawford fired at me, not I at him. I do not believe that you were there to witness the event?"

She gave him a bewildered and mistrusting look, but slowly led us farther down the hall. "I was in the kitchen and heard the shot. Mr. Crawford told us—the servants, I mean—that it was you, so naturally I believed him. May I ask who you are? You don't seem like a policeman."

"You are an astute girl, and I apologise for not introducing myself sooner," my friend replied. "I am Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes," she repeated slowly, in an awestruck tone. "The famous detective." His name had a sudden and dramatic change in her manner towards all of us. Before she had been nervous and untrusting, and now she appeared amazed—and also flattered at being complimented. It seemed that we would have little trouble in obtaining her help.

"Indeed I am," Holmes replied. "Now, Miss—?"

"Luxford," she supplied.

"Miss Luxford, I am going to ask that you answer a few questions for Inspector Patterson.

He gestured to Patterson, who smiled kindly at her.

"It should not take long," the Inspector said.

"All right, sir," she replied. "I hope I can help you gentlemen find Mr. Crawford."

The two went of into a side room for the interrogation, and the rest of us entered the sitting room, each lost in our own thoughts for a moment.

"They are hiding somewhere in the house," said Duncan. "That is really all we have to go on. Mr. Holmes, where shall we start?"

"Check any places with missing space. A room or hall that isn't as wide or long as it ought to be. Something of that sort."

"Like the Norwood builder case last autumn," I said quietly, more to myself than anyone else.

"Precisely, Watson," Holmes replied, smiling at me. He was looking slightly better now, despite the fact that his skin was still a rather sickly pale. To the room at large, he added, "Duncan, you and Lestrade check the halls starting with top floor and work your way down. Watson and I shall start down here."

"All right," Duncan replied, and Lestrade nodded.

As soon as they were out of earshot, I said to my friend, "Good plan, I never would have let you climb any more steps than you had to."

Holmes paced across the room toward the desk next to a window. "I know you too well," he replied absently, flipping through the papers on the desk and then putting them back down in no particular order. "Yesterday…" he muttered, "…could've sworn I saw everything, but no, I missed something, and they both knew…" he trailed off as he treaded quietly between a chair and the fireplace, kneeling stiffly on the floor for a moment before dragging himself to his feet. My heart twinged a little to see how his normally fluid and dexterous motions were hindered by his injury.

"But how?" The detective suddenly exclaimed with an angry hand gesture, swiftly circling the settee and staring up at the ceiling. "Must've been something obvious…overlooking the obvious, how unusual for me." He strode to the wall near the fireplace and walked slowly around the edges of the room, still muttering. "Can't have been the papers, nothing unusual in the furniture…carpet? No. Windows?"

He cut through the middle of the room and made to jump the coffee table but stopped himself short and walked around it. He reached the windows and examined the glass and curtains. "Hmm, I rather doubt it." He whirled round suddenly, and stopped short when he caught sight of me still standing in the doorway. "Watson, why are you not checking the hall?" He inquired more curtly than was his wont.

I started a little. "Oh! Sorry, Holmes, I just got a little caught up in watching you investigate."

"I am sure I am quite entertaining to observe," he replied dryly. "Now please…?" He made a shooing gesture as he turned away from me and towards the back wall. "I shall call for you if I find anything of interest, and you may do the same."

I retreated into the hall feeling a little piqued, but unsurprised by my friend's sudden curtness.

**_Holmes_**

For some reason, Watson's presence had distracted me. That was not at all the usual order of things, and I could not imagine why I had felt the need to order him from the room so rudely. I was regretting that decision already, but pushed the thought from my mind and delved back into my investigation.

Something I'd missed before. What had I not seen? Or more likely, what significance of the things I _had_ seen had I overlooked? I returned to my slow pacing around the edges of the room, taking everything in, analyzing it, categorizing it, and discovering nothing new.

Growling in suppressed frustration I turned and caught sight of one of the paintings on the wall and halted.

I had not given them a whole lot of thought before. There were two paintings, both watercolour landscape scenes, both about twenty by thirty inches in size, and both in the same bronze-ish coloured metal frame. The painting I was standing before showed a forest near a river in the spring. The other depicted a similar forest in the autumn.

Striding quickly towards it, I examined the autumn scene and it immediately struck me that there was something different, though at first I could not identify it. I examined the painting and frame carefully, then returned to the spring scene painting and did the same.

I gasped aloud.

Fingerprints! There were at least five times more on this frame than the other, and all on the left hand side. And the way that they were placed was the way one would situate his hand to open up a door.

They were in a hidden room located behind the painting, they had to be!

I rushed (or rather moved as quickly as I could in my condition) out of the room and into the hall. I discovered Watson pacing the width of an unused bedroom at the end of the hall.

"Quickly and quietly as you can, find Duncan and Lestrade and bring them to the sitting room," I whispered. "I believe I have found where they are hiding!"

My Boswell's face lit up with excitement. He nodded and ascended the stairs as swiftly as he could, and returned a minute later with the other two. I motioned for them to follow me.

"Duncan, fetch your brother," I whispered. He quickly left to do so, and returned with Inspector Patterson a minute later.

We quietly entered the sitting room.

"How do you—" Watson started to ask, but I cut him off.

"I'll explain later. They are in a concealed room behind this painting!" I pointed at the springtime watercolour. "Unfortunately, there is no way to tell if they have a back door."

"The constables stationed outside the house ought to stop them," Patterson replied, though his voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.

"I wouldn't count on it," I replied. "Everyone, ready your arms, and I'll open the door." I grabbed the side of the painting with my uninjured left arm and swung it open to reveal—

—An empty room. Or rather, a recently abandoned room.

Duncan and I both swore.

"Lestrade, climb in and see if there is a back door though which they could have escaped," I directed. "Patterson, give him a hand up." Quickly, Patterson knelt down and used his hands as a step for the short Inspector Lestrade, who clambered in to the room behind.

"There's some sort of pathway, or hallway in the back!" Lestrade exclaimed. "I'm following it."

Patterson hoisted himself up and through the opening. His and Lestrade's quick footsteps echoed down the hall.

Holmes turned to Duncan and was about to speak when we heard a shout from behind the house.

The yell was followed by three gunshots, and a piercing scream.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

**_Holmes_**

"Oh dear Lord!" Watson exclaimed. After a moment's hesitation, Watson, Duncan, and I were rushing down the back stairs, guns in hand, through the kitchens—to the alarm of the servants—and out the back door into the alley.

The first thing that drew my attention was _not_ the constable on my right on his knees, clutching his bloody arm and gasping for air as tears poured down his cheeks. It was not the other constable shouting for help as he attempted to stem the flow of blood from the other's injury. It was not Lestrade awkwardly pulling Patterson out of a basement level window, nor was it the two Irregulars huddled next to a dingy set of stairs, watching the proceedings from the shadows.

The first thing I saw were the figures of two men, dashing madly down the alley to my left.

"AFTER THEM!" I bellowed, pointing. Stars exploded in the edges of my vision. Lestrade wheeled round in time to see Cauldwell and Crawford turn the corner, and he and the two Pattersons started after them.

In another moment, Watson was at the wounded man's side, assisting the other constable in gently picking him up and carrying him into the house.

"You! Call for an ambulance!" I heard Watson shout to the first servant to step out the door.

I turned back and caught sight of Lestrade and the other two sprinting madly down the alley. One second, I was torn between staying and going, and the next I found myself heading down the alleyway after them as swiftly as I possibly could, in my weakened state. Cauldwell would not be allowed to escape, not if I had any say in the matter at all!

White hot rage and desperation fueled my adrenaline as I followed the charge down the alley after the others. But it was soon clear that I would not come close to reaching them. I had barely gone a block when my breath began to come in short gasps and my head began to grow light. It was just over two blocks when I stumbled the first time, and I had not even reached the third block before my feet began to falter beneath me. I slowed to a tottering brisk walk as the world began to tip onto its side. With a jarring crash I found myself lying upon the ground, gasping for air as my head pounded and my lungs refused to function. Every second was a fight to remain conscious as well as a fight to breathe.

Running had been a horrible mistake. My brain may not have been fully functional, but of that I was certain.

I lay gasping upon the ground for what felt like half an eternity, my eyes closed tightly, wishing the fog my head would clear and the ringing in my ears would quiet enough for me to think, and desperately hoping that someone would find me if I was as seriously damaged as I suspected I was.

"It is truly good to see you, Mr. Holmes," came an all too familiar voice from far too close to me. "Though I must say, I wish it had been under friendlier circumstances."

Grimacing from the pain in my shoulder, head, side, the rest of my body, I rolled from my side onto my back, and found myself staring up into the coldly smiling face of Roderick Cauldwell.

"Would you like a hand up?" he asked, leaning down and offering his hand to me, the gesture mockingly exaggerated.

I refused to take it and with a great effort rolled onto my stomach and then forced my knees underneath me. I remained bent double and sitting on my legs for a moment, trying in vain to catch my breath and calm my erratic heartbeat. My head pounded and the edges of my vision darkened. My insides twisted and I fought a sudden urge to vomit.

"That was quite an impressive sprint," Cauldwell commented. "You made it an entire block farther than I had anticipated. I thought I might have to jog to catch up to you, before you collapsed."

Clenching my teeth to prevent any sounds of weakness to escape, I straightened myself and rose unsteadily to my feet, my head dangerously light. I felt myself swaying where I stood.

"You have the willpower of twenty men," said Cauldwell, sounding almost sincere. "You could have done very well as a criminal. We may have even been able to work together."

"I would never associate myself with anyone like you," I spat. "I would rather burn alive than join the likes of you sick, cold, cowardly—" I broke off with a gasp; I had more adjectives to use than breath to spare, unfortunately.

He raised an eyebrow at my diatribe. "Let us keep this conversation civil, shall we?" he replied.

It was at that moment that I remembered the pistol that I still clutched in my left hand, slick with sweat, and blood from an open cut across the knuckles I'd received when I fell. I raised the gun and trained it on his forehead, gingerly using my right hand to steady my horribly shaking left arm.

Cauldwell flinched slightly and made to take a step backwards, but checked himself and gave me a curious stare with his icy green eyes. "Would you really kill me?"

"Drop any weapons." That was my only reply.

"I am unarmed. But tell me, would you do it? There are no witnesses here. No one will ever know."

The pounding in my head grew more forceful and a cold sweat broke out on my back. "I can search you."

"You can barely stand, how do you expect to search me? I've already told you I'm unarmed," he sneered, then suddenly burst into hysterical laughter.

"You are completely mad," I breathed.

"Perhaps," he replied, giving one more chuckle before regaining his composure. "But be plain with me now, would you do it?"

Would I? I knew very well what my answer should be, but I wanted him dead so desperately. Unchecked rage as I have never known flowed through my veins and into every fiber of my being. Roderick Cauldwell deserved to die, and I had the means to do it. Why should I not kill him now? It would be so easy.

"Ah, you're not sure, are you? Torn between your silly ideas of right and wrong, and your desire for revenge, for me to pay for what I have done."

He was right. How could he read me so easily?

"It is really not hard to tell what you are thinking," he said smiling, that horrid scar on his face contorting his features. "You have practically been an open book of late. But here is where you make your choice. Either you shoot me now, or I flee to safety and you never see me again. Which shall it be?"

There was no way I would be able to do anything but fire the gun or collapse onto the ground, the latter outcome seeming to be more and more likely as seconds ticked by. If he ran, I wouldn't be able to follow. It really was shoot, or allow him to escape. And judging by my shaking arm, I would not be able to aim well enough to be sure I was shooting to harm but not kill. I could not guarantee that I would not kill him by accident…or even that I would not attempt to kill him on purpose. If I was being completely honest with myself, I would say that I really did not know what my intentions were.

What I needed now was to buy myself some time, and get a few questions answered.

"I'm not choosing just yet. There are just a couple of things that I would like explained first," I said, choosing my words carefully.

Cauldwell looked a little surprised. "And what are they?"

"If you are here, then who did we see running with Crawford?" I inquired.

"A man I paid quite well this morning to do so," he replied.

"I see. And why go through all the bother of risking your neck talking to me when you could be making your perfect escape?"

He gave a dry chuckle. "You have me. Fine, I shall explain. There is no escape for me. Too many people are searching for me this time. I decided that rather than go out running like some wild animal, I would find you and speak to you one last time."

"Why do you want me to kill you?" I asked him.

"Who says that I do?" he replied, cocking an eyebrow.

"It's obvious to me that you do," I riposted.

"And it's just as obvious to me that you are prepared to do so," he countered.

Silence fell as we sized one another up. Was it really so clear that I was all but prepared to kill him now? I knew that desperately I wanted to, but a tug from the back of my mind held my finger steady and would not allow me to pull the trigger. I searched back in my mind to find the source, and found—

Watson. If he were in my place, he would not murder Cauldwell, for that is what it would be, no matter what he had done to deserve death. I continued to hesitate; my friend was a far better man that I could ever hope of being.

"By the way, I did notice the people watching through those windows there—" I pointed at the upper storey windows in two of the buildings to my right, and they slunk back into the shadows "—and the rather heavyset man on that roof." I pointed him out as well. The man looked wildly to his left and right, then made to run away, as quickly as his girth would allow.

"You planned the perfect suicide, didn't you?" I continued. "Not only do you escape hanging, you cause me to be arrested and hanged in your place for your murder. How completely brilliant." The awe in my voice was almost sincere.

Cauldwell only gaped at me, clearly not expecting to still be alive. He seemed to realise that his mouth was hanging open and he closed it.

I smiled. I knew I was enjoying finally having the upper hand more than I ought to be, but I really could not help myself. "Oh dear, you seem to have lost your well-placed witnesses," I said.

Cauldwell took a step backward, apparently still unable to speak.

The sound of voices and running footsteps echoed down the neighbouring alley, and Duncan Patterson sprinted into view and skidded to a stop next to us.

"I see you've found the weaselly little scoundrel," he commented breathlessly, and produced a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his jacket. "I'll do the honors." He cuffed Cauldwell's hands behind his back.

Cauldwell's astonished expression had faded; now he only seemed sullen and resigned to whatever happened. He stared at me one more time, something different about the look in his eyes now. He held them on my face for a very long moment, as though searching for something in my eyes. Whatever he found, he did not seem to understand. When the moment was over, he hung his head and dropped his gaze to the ground.

Roderick Cauldwell was defeated at last.

I hadn't noticed just how quickly my heart had been racing during the past few minutes, but as it slowed and the adrenaline rush faded, I began to feel faint. My vision dimmed at the edges again, and the nausea returned. The pounding of blood through my ears muffled Duncan's shout of "Holmes!" I felt a pair of arms stop me from crashing to the ground again before I forfeited the battle to remain conscious.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: ****HUGE THANKS, once again, to everyone who's been reading this, especially all of you who have followed, favorited, or left reviews. It truly does mean a lot to me.**

**Fresh virtual chocolate chip cookies—baked by Mrs. Hudson—for all who leave a review on the last chapter! The only thing I love more than knowing all of you are reading my stories is knowing what you think of them. :)**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

**_Watson_**

I had been seated in the chair next to Holmes's hospital bed for what was beginning to feel like an eternity.

After we had run out the back door of Crawford's house, I rushed to the aid of the wounded police constable, whose name I learned later was Ernest Lawrence, and momentarily forgot about Holmes. Even when I realised that he was gone, I could not leave poor Lawrence—there were no other doctors there who could tend to him. As the ambulance arrived for the wounded constable, Lestrade returned to inform me that Patterson had Crawford and Cauldwell in custody, and that Duncan was taking Holmes to Charing Cross Hospital.

I hailed a hansom and followed the ambulance to the hospital, managing in one way or another to gain access to Holmes's room.

I am afraid that I grew hot enough under the collar during this arduous process that I believe a few of the staff thought I ought to be sent to the mental ward. It was fortunate that one of the doctors was an old friend of mine from medical school. I agreed to allow him to look at my arm—and I must confess it probably did need attention again, as I had used it far more than I ought to have—then he let me into Holmes's room.

Dr. Livingston, who was treating Holmes, had just finished putting in stitches in Holmes's shoulder when I entered. He informed me that Holmes would likely be staying for up to a week to recover his strength, and only then would he be released into my care.

That was about seven hours ago now. Dr. Livingston and two nurses had tried to convince me to go home for the night, but I refused to be moved. I knew how much Holmes hated hospitals, and it was very likely he would be upset and disoriented when he awakened.

I stared down at my friend. His face was still awfully pale and he looked exhausted. His thin chest shuddered a little as it rose and fell with every breath. He gave a convulsive shiver. I pulled the blankets up higher over him, and checked his pulse. That, at least, seemed to have improved surprisingly well. It was still a little weak, but as long as I kept him drinking plenty of fluids and watched his shoulder for signs of infection, it looked like he should be able to recover quite well.

After another twenty minutes, my limbs were stiff enough that I decided to stand up and stretch. I paced around the bed, and towards the small window. Pushing the curtain aside, I stared out at the darkened street. Two gas lamps could be seen from my position, and from their light I watched as the figure of a man drunkenly stumbled down the street and up to the front of one of the houses. The door opened, spilling light out onto the street, and a woman—presumably his wife—dragged him inside.

"Watson?"

I started when I heard Holmes's voice from behind me, quiet from weakness and disuse.

I turned around to face him. "Hello, Holmes. It's good to finally see you awake."

He grunted in reply, and closed his eyes. After a few seconds he suddenly opened them again. "What am I doing in a hospital?" he queried irritably.

I refrained from rolling my eyes and returned to my seat. "You have been rather seriously injured in the last couple of days, I'm afraid."

"Nonsense," he replied, using an arm in an attempt to sit up . "I am perfectly fine." He again struggled to sit up, and again failed. "When can I leave?"

I smiled a little sadly and shook my head. "It'll be a few days in all likelihood, but I promise I shall have you out of here as soon as I can."

"Fine," he replied, closing his eyes again. "I am holding you to that," he added in a slurred mumble. His breathing slowed and returned to a steadier rhythm as he drifted back to sleep.

**_Holmes_**

When I awoke once again, it was just after dawn. My room was silent, apart from the steady, quiet breathing of my friend, who it seemed had finally given in to his exhaustion and fallen asleep in his chair. And no wonder! As far as I knew, he had not slept one wink the previous night. The poor fellow was going to have an awful crick in his neck when he awakened, but there was nothing I could do to prevent that now.

I sighed and shifted positions slightly, wrinkling my nose at the strong scent of antiseptic. How I loathed hospitals. Though the fact that Watson and I were here meant that we had both survived this ordeal, which was definitely a positive thing.

I yawned widely. I did need some more rest.

I had just closed my eyes when I heard the door of my room open, and the light footsteps of a petite woman entering the room.

I opened my eyes and groaned when I saw it was a nurse.

"No need to be so excited to see me," she said dryly, then proceeded to check my temperature and pulse in her quick, fluttery way. I was quite glad when she left again, so that I could return to sleep.

I had not yet been resting for two minutes when the door opened again.

When I opened my eyes, I saw my brother Mycroft standing in the doorway.

"You needn't look so surprised to see me," he remarked.

"I am merely surprised that my sick room has become something resembling Victoria station so early this morning," I replied. "You are my second visitor within ten minutes, not counting Watson."

"Hmm," he remarked, pulling up the chair not already occupied by my sleeping friend. "Two people. You seem to be quite popular," he said. Though his voice did not betray his sarcasm, it was easily readable in his expression.

"Sarcasm does not become you," I commented, yawning widely behind my hand.

"Nor you, brother dear," he replied. "But how are you?"

"Well enough to get out of here, if you would be willing to use your influence to lean on a few higher-ups of the hospital staff."

He gave a deep chuckle. "I think not. You shall have to wait until you are actually well to leave."

"Blast, it was worth a try," I muttered under my breath, and yawned.

My brother appeared to be refraining from rolling his eyes. He slowly rose to his feet. "I'll leave you to get some rest."

"Mm. Thank you," I replied.

"Farewell, Sherlock," he said.

"Good bye, Mycroft," I replied, closing my eyes.

No sooner had I drifted off to sleep than I heard the door of my room open, and the quiet footsteps of multiple small persons and one grown man. I opened my eyes to see Duncan Patterson standing awkwardly in the doorway. Four of my Baker Street Irregulars—Edwin, Henry, Tom and Jacob—tiptoed before him, mindful of the peacefully snoring Watson.

"Hello, Mr. 'Olmes," whispered Tom.

"Hello, Tom," I replied.

"Are yew all roight?" Henry asked, peering at me with concern. "You look awful pale."

"O' course he's not all roight!" Jacob whispered to him. "He's in the bleedin' 'ospital!"

"Oh, roight," muttered Henry. "Bad question."

I chuckled softly. "It's all right, Henry. And it's good to see all of you." I smiled at the boys and nodded to Duncan.

"We got yew a card," said Edwin, pulling a crinkled "Get Well Soon" card out of his trouser pocket and handing it to me. I opened it and found about twenty signatures scrawled in varying degrees of neatness (and lack thereof) on the inside.

"We all signed it," said Tom, a little more loudly than he should have and Jacob shushed him. "Sorry. Do you loike it?" he added more quietly.

"It is wonderful, and I am very grateful," I replied.

"I have something for you as well," said Duncan.

I raised my eyebrows. "Yes?"

"When Violet and I destroyed Cauldwell's documents and Miss Jane's copies, I decided to spare the letter that she wrote to you, in case you wanted it," he said somewhat awkwardly, as though unsure about how I would react. "I have it here." He pulled it out of a coat pocket and handed it to me.

I took the paper, and turned it over in my hands. "Thank you," I said quietly.

He nodded in reply. "We should let him rest, boys."

The four looked a trifle disappointed, but agreed all the same.

"I'm glad you brought them to visit me," I said to Duncan.

"It was no problem. Tell the Doctor I say 'hello' when he wakes up."

"I shall certainly do so," I replied.

"Good bye, Mr. Holmes," he said and the boys all echoed him.

"Farewell," I replied, marveling as they left on how well behaved they have been. They must have taken quite a liking to Duncan, or perhaps it was simply too early in the morning for them to be as energetic as they would be under normal circumstances. Who knew, with those boys…

I glanced down at the card in my hand once more and smiled, before setting it on the side table. Apparently one of the nurses had decided to put a vase of yellow flowers while I was asleep. I could not say that I was particularly fond of yellow, but it had been one of Jane's favourite colours when we were children. And they were rather nice flowers, I supposed.

Sighing, I stared down at the letter in my hand. I slowly unfolded it, and paused for a long moment, staring down at my sister's handwriting. Then I read it once more, though I was unsure why I did so. Even after five years I sill missed her so very keenly. I regretted now that I had not called on her more often while she was alive. With all the excitement of cases, and Watson to keep me company, it had never really seemed necessary.

Everything is clearer with hindsight, I thought to myself. If only we could know the way things would happen before they did, so that we could plan for tragedies like this! But that is not the way of this world. We have to do what we can for others with the time that we have allotted to us—no more and no less.

Hum. I seemed to be growing rather philosophical, probably due to my exhaustion, both physical and mental. I certainly expect that when I am better rested, I'll leave the philosophy to Watson.

I gave an eye-wateringly wide yawn. It took only seconds for me to return to sleep.

This time, my rest was uninterrupted.

It took four long days of rest, and my persistent persuasion of Dr. Livingston, for him to finally decide that I was well enough to be released into the care of my own personal physician. This was only better than the hospital in the respect that I was at home instead of a hospital room, and Watson had a bit more respect for my pride and privacy than the average hospital doctor.

We heard from both Lestrade and Patterson in the following two weeks, and learned that Cauldwell, Crawford, and the man called Shenston were all sentenced to death, and Rogers and Jefferson received life sentences in prison. In a strange show of remorse, Crawford admitted to having killed Williams. He said that Williams had lied about his killer as a final act of spite upon Jefferson. Though I was not there to witness the event, Lestrade was. He informed us that Jefferson had burst into tears at the news that Crawford was owning up to his crime. In light of Crawford's confession, it was determined that Jefferson would not serve any jail time, and thus had a chance to start his life afresh.

Jefferson and his son Billy both visited me after he was released. Jefferson very sincerely apologised to both me and Watson for all the pain he had been responsible for causing us. He told us that he intended to live life honestly from then on. We thanked him very kindly, and wished him good luck with his future. I told Billy that he was quite welcome to join the Irregulars if he so chose. He seemed a nice enough lad.

So it happened that on the evening of Wednesday, May 1st, Watson and I found ourselves at home in our rooms on Baker Street. We were seated in our respective chairs at the table, reading through a large stack of newspapers that had accumulated in the past week, and waiting for Mrs. Hudson to bring up our dinner.

"Found anything of interest?" I inquired as I snipped out an article about a notorious bank-robbing gang.

"Hmm," Watson replied slowly, skimming down the page. "I take it you still don't want to hear about weddings of nobility?" he inquired mischievously.

"I have not changed that much, have I?" I replied, exaggerating my aghast expression for Watson's benefit.

He laughed outright. "I think not. Aha! Here's a locked room murder for you," he said.

"Let me see that!" I exclaimed, snatching it from his hands and reading carefully through the article.

"Quite the mystery, isn't it?" my Boswell said, sounding rather proud that he had discovered the article.

I sat thinking for a minute, and read through the article once more. "No, not so much," I replied, startling Watson out of his study of an article in _The Lancet_.

"How do you explain it then?" he asked, leaning forward, curiosity and fascination equally displayed in his open expression.

"She was killed by her visiting cousins and then placed in her bedroom. The door must have been locked from the outside after they left her."

Watson gasped. "Why, I was suspecting her brother!"

I laughed aloud. "Don't be absurd!" I then proceeded to explain my reasoning to Watson's ever increasing amazement.

"Well I never!" he exclaimed when I finished. "You truly are remarkable, Holmes."

I grinned. "So are you."

"Pshaw," he waved me off, though the ghost of a smile on his face told me he was flattered. "I'm a simple doctor with an interest in crime and you're one of the most brilliant detectives of all time!"

"You underestimate yourself," I replied, shaking my head. "You always have."

He smiled outright now. "I shall take your compliment, and not argue with you," he said. "Thank you."

"You will always be welcome to it," I said as we heard Mrs. Hudson ascending the stairs.

"Gentlemen!" she exclaimed, as though to announce her entrance into the room, as if her loud footsteps had not already alerted us to her presence. "Take those papers off the table; I am bringing in your dinner!"

We both knew better than to argue—not to mention that I noticed the smell of what promised to be some very delicious chicken soup—and quickly removed them from the table top; I shoving them onto the floor, and Watson neatly stacking the others neatly next to his chair.

Our remarkable landlady laid all of the delicious smelling dishes on the table, then returned to the kitchen, leaving us to enjoy our spectacular dinner.

It seemed that finally all was once again as it should be.

For now.


End file.
